


Awake, Arise

by katsidhe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Blood and Gore, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lucifer's Cage, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 09, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsidhe/pseuds/katsidhe
Summary: To call this nightmare familiar would be understatement, but long experience did nothing to blunt the edges of his fear, and everything to make the anticipation choke him. So when a figure appeared in the corner of his vision, he swallowed and shut his eyes.In the wake of Kevin's death and Dean's Mark, Sam faces the resurgence of an old problem--Lucifer's back.





	1. Cold Open

Sam fell asleep to the bare, solid walls of his room in the bunker, and he opened his eyes to cold blue light and the barred ceiling of the Cage. 

To call this nightmare familiar would be understatement, but long experience did nothing to blunt the edges of his fear, and everything to make the anticipation choke him. So when a figure appeared in the corner of his vision, he swallowed and shut his eyes.

Someone knelt over him, straddled him and pinned his arms and closed a hand around his neck. Sam didn't bother to struggle, and the hand didn't squeeze yet.

The figure leaned down, and Sam felt his weight shift. Lucifer's voice was soft and gentle in his ear, and as usual Sam's heart dropped into his stomach at the familiar sound. "I'd be lying if I said I expected to ever see you back here again, Sam."

Sam said nothing and did not react. Lucifer straightened and Sam imagined Lucifer regarding him with a faint smile. The fingers on his neck pressed in just a little, a warning. 

"Nothing to say, bunk buddy? No warm welcome, no tearful reunion? No apologies for long absence?"

This was... new. Usually these nightmares were a bit more straightforward, were cribbed straight from Sam's memories. But Sam's subconscious had plenty of creative tactics. He supposed it took after Lucifer, like that. 

"Not feeling talkative? Open your eyes, Sam."

There was no room for thought. Sam obeyed. Lucifer was not in fact smiling, as he'd imagined. Instead his expression was drawn and intent, and a little tight. If Sam didn't know better, he'd call it  _shocked_. 

"Sam, I'm  _very_  curious as to how you got here. I suggest you begin satisfying my curiosity."

What? "What?" Sam managed. 

Which was obviously the wrong response. Lucifer squeezed much tighter at that, and leaned in close again. "So, ritual gone wrong? Or maybe right? Got on Dad's bad side? Pissed off a pagan? My patience is wearing very thin, Sam." He relaxed his grip to let Sam gasp for breath.

Sam panted a bit.  The nightmare was off script. He choked out, "This is a dream." 

That brought Lucifer's smile back for a moment, just the way Sam remembered it. "Are you saying you dream about me, Sam? Such a romantic. But you still haven't answered me." This time Lucifer let go of his neck and leaned back to free Sam's hands from where he had pinned them with his vessel's knees. He took hold of Sam's wrists with one hand, firmly held them against the Cage floor above Sam's head. 

Sam closed his eyes again when Lucifer conjured a spike in his free hand. He felt the sharp drag as Lucifer teased the spike from the crook of his right forearm up to his wrist, barely breaking the skin. "I've missed this," Lucifer said quietly, barely a breath, and Sam screamed as he drove the spike through his wrist and into the floor. 

Sam gritted his teeth and panted through the initial surge of pain, felt it plateau and slacken to a steady fiery ache, and opened his eyes again. Lucifer was watching him carefully, eyes intent and hungry. "This is a dream," said Sam again, to break the silence.

Lucifer took Sam's free hand into both of his, began to massage it. "And why do you think that, Sam?" 

Sam watched Lucifer's hands and tried to breathe deeply. "Because this is just a nightmare. I fell asleep. And I'm not really here. And I'll wake up again."

Lucifer paused, then twisted Sam's index finger back until it gave a sharp  _crack_. Sam made a strangled noise, but managed to keep breathing. "You think this isn't real. So, you didn't make a deal. Or intend to come back." He paused, and when Sam didn't answer, broke the next finger. 

"No, no deal," Sam gasped. 

"And no plan?"  _Crack._ Ring finger. 

"No plan." It was getting harder to remember that this wasn't real. "Not real.”

That put a thoughtful look on Lucifer's face, and he broke the rest of Sam's hand in silence, finishing the fingers and moving through the metacarpals without pause for another question. Sam let himself make a bit of noise when Lucifer reached his wrist.

"I suppose you have some sense after all! Here I'd thought you were indulging your martyr complex again. Or maybe your masochism.” Lucifer pinned Sam's wrist by his head and produced a knife. "So, this is a fun little mystery! We're gonna need to figure out who sent you here, and how, while the details are still fresh." 

"Not here, not real," Sam whispered. He was shivering, with pain or cold. Or fear.

Lucifer's face sharpened. "But first I really ought to disabuse you of that little idea. We can't have you forgetting who you're with."

The first cut was shallow, as usual. Down his forearm to his ruined hand. More shallow cuts,  and Sam stared at the ceiling of the Cage, lit intermittently with flashes of blue light, and tried very hard to wake up. Sam bit his lip against a scream when Lucifer forced the knife under and peeled off a section of skin. 

Lucifer paused there to cup Sam's face, wiping sweat off his forehead and smearing blood there instead. His expression was back to one Sam was used to, sympathy. "Been awhile for both of us, hm? You definitely used to be tougher. Don't worry, we can train you up again." 

Sam choked out a wild laugh at that, and Lucifer laughed too. Then he cut deeper, digging with the blade rather than slicing, into the mess of Sam's arm until Sam could see the flash of white that meant bone. Lucifer did something with the knife Sam couldn't see, found the nerve, and Sam screamed in earnest. 

As soon as Sam screamed, Lucifer paused and laid down the knife. He stared at Sam for a long moment with a wild, hungry expression. Then he was reaching his hand  _inside_ Sam, grasping his soul, and Sam was lost for long moments in a crest of white hot agony.

Sam came back to himself and the ceiling was blurry through his tears. His throat and his arms burned. He couldn't breathe, and someone was saying something but he couldn't hear, and there was something important, something to remember—he blinked away the tears and he could hear, could feel himself repeating "not real not realnotrealnot—" then Lucifer did it again, and this time Sam just screamed without words. 

The pain crested and steadied and Sam focused, breathed. This  _had_  to be a dream.  He opened his eyes and Lucifer was smiling at him. "I'm wondering—what will it take to convince you that you're with me?"

He stared at the ceiling and flexed the fingers on his broken hand, pressing his nails into his palm. In the dreams where he could manage to remember it, the scar sometimes worked. 

Lucifer noticed and pried his ruined hand open. His fingers moved gently across the scar on Sam's palm.  "Quite a nasty scar you've got here, Sam," he said. "What happened?"

"No, no." For the first time, Sam tried to struggle. Lucifer ignored his efforts.

"Yes, it is nasty, isn't it? And definitely happened outside this place, and not in a dream. Are you really trying to wake yourself up with this, Sam?" Lucifer's voice was delighted. Sam threw his head back against the floor  _hard_.  _Wake up,_ he thought,  _wakeupwakeup_  wake up. 

Lucifer gave an incredulous laugh. "You really are too easy to read, Sam Winchester. Let's open this puppy up." 

He set the blade against Sam's scar, pressed in and deep. Sam closed his eyes and felt that utter grounding shock of real pain, the sting that had always, always come with relief as Hell faded away... but the rest of the pain was still there, enough to make his breath come short, and he opened his eyes and Lucifer was smirking triumphantly and Sam knew it was real. 

"There it is! That's the look I've been waiting for! A bit of hopelessness, bit of terror. Just a smidgeon of despair. Welcome home, Sam Winchester!"


	2. The Penny Drops

 A sick black pit in his stomach. Sam was gone, the foundation was gone. This was real. He was back in the Cage, like he'd never left. He was crying, and his voice was shaking, but he couldn't bring himself to feel ashamed. "How?"

"'How' is exactly what you're going to tell me, Sammy." Lucifer's behavior made much more sense now, Sam supposed. His obvious surprise, his need for answers.  

"But—there was nothing—how did you..." Sam couldn't grasp it. Just couldn't get his mind around the enormity of it. From the safest he's ever been in his life, dropped straight back into his worst nightmare. He started to struggle again, just a little, and Lucifer twisted his smashed hand to settle him, but Sam couldn't stop himself. This couldn't happen again. It was too much, it was unbearable, and when Lucifer smirked, Sam absolutely went mad. 

He was screaming, swearing, didn't know what he was saying, bucking against Lucifer's grip and yanking against his nailed hand, tearing at the muscle. 

He nearly managed to lever himself up but Lucifer's hand forced him back down, then drove inside his chest. Sam screamed, but Lucifer did something with his fingers and Sam was suddenly breathless with agony. He choked, and then he was sobbing rather than yelling. No room for thought or anger against the deep, cold, burning intimacy of this familiar pain.

Lucifer sighed, fingers still twisted into Sam's soul. "While I appreciate that this is very emotional for you, I'm going to need a bit more effort than that. Let's move past the histrionics, shall we?" Sam couldn't do anything but jerk and sob.

He leaned in next to Sam's ear again, laid his other hand on Sam's cheek. "I know you missed me, sweetheart. I certainly missed you." He licked a tear from Sam's cheek, and Sam shuddered. 

"But in case it wasn't abundantly clear, I was not involved in arranging this reunion. Much as the idea appeals to me." Lucifer withdrew his hands and sat back on his heels. 

Sam sobbed once, half in relief as the consuming agony eased, then managed to choke back the tears. His mind was spinning in a thousand directions of panic. He was in the Cage. Okay, that was established, he was in the Cage, he was with Lucifer. What had happened? Sam didn't know. Lucifer didn't know. Was Dean okay? If Dean wasn't free, wasn't safe... if this was some spell or revenge that had dragged them both back in... Sam couldn't think like that. Dean couldn't be in hell. Dean was safe, and Dean would organize a rescue. Like he had done before. Like he always did.  

Lucifer sighed. "Sam, work with me here. If we can't have a cordial conversation..." Lucifer snapped his fingers, and Sam flinched, but it had just been a threat, and Lucifer snorted. "Well, I can always try another tactic, you know."

Suddenly Sam was furious again, angry even past the terror, and words burst out before he could think better of them. "All I know is that you still love the sound of your own voice."

Lucifer stared at him incredulously for a second, then burst out laughing. "What a brave little toaster! I missed that sass, I really did," he said. "It really has been awhile since I've heard defiance from you, Sam. You got a bit--hm, pathetic near the end."  

"Fuck you," Sam spat. His eyes were stinging. The pit in his gut shuddered.

"Maybe later," Lucifer said mildly. "For now, we're still playing Great Mouse Detective." He grinned and conjured a long, jagged hook in one hand. It was about six inches across, serrated, with a wicked curve Sam really didn't want to think about. 

Sam twitched but resolutely did not look away. "Believe me, I haven't gone near anything with the power to breach this place." 

"And yet, here you are, roomie. So you must have pissed off someone in some high place. Unless I'm getting a conjugal visit for good behavior."

Sam said nothing. Lucifer winked and set the serrated tip of the hook against Sam's abdomen.

"C'mon, Sam, this can be messy, or, well, messier. Isn't this your kinda thing anyway? The whole Hardy Boys routine?" Sam bit his lip and stared at the ceiling as Lucifer forced the end of the hook under the first few layers of skin and muscle. "I'm volunteering to help you solve this case out of the kindness of my heart. The least you can do is play along."

Sam shut his eyes for a moment. Lucifer pushed the hook an inch more in a burst of white-hot pain, and he stifled a moan. Share intel, or not? He was under no illusions that Lucifer could get what he wanted from Sam, sooner or later. Sam could make it later. But was there anything to protect? Lucifer wanted information for obvious reasons—escape. But Sam had no idea how he was back here. 

Lucifer twisted and Sam lost the thread of his thoughts as his vision whited out. He panted and blinked blindly for a few moments, licked the blood from where he'd bitten through his lip. Think think think, Sam, okay, was there anything to lose? If whoever had sent Sam back here was exploiting some flaw in the Cage, it was a weak link Sam didn't know about and couldn't possibly inform on. If they hoped to free Lucifer, there were surely better avenues than to send him a very surprised true vessel. All in all, it seemed like despite Lucifer's desperate clutching at straws, at any semblance of a gap in his prison, this thing was about hurting Sam, not helping Lucifer. Which, Sam reflected, was really a job well done. Very effective.

He opened his eyes again and focused on a deep, shuddering breath as the hook slowly drove in. He accomplished a low keen instead. Close enough. Lucifer was going to hook through intestine soon.

"Okay. Okay." Whatever else had happened, Sam needed to get through this. Survive moment to moment. He had to focus, and obey, and make the pain less. And hell, it was true, Sam wanted to figure this out just as much as Lucifer did. Lucifer could put the pieces together better than he could, at this point. "I--I remember falling asleep, then I woke up here. The last thing we hunted was--was a witch in Grand Rapids." 

Lucifer did the angelic head tilt thing. Sam really hated when Cas did that. "Hmm." He abandoned the hook--still buried in Sam's abdomen—to pick up the knife again. He went back to digging at Sam's mutilated arm. 

Sam swallowed blood from his bitten cheek and looked at the ceiling and kept talking. "But she was, um. Garden variety. Small—small time, entropy curses, ah, love potions. Week before was, no, was a wendigo, and a few vampires—" He cut off to scream. 

"So, nothing with the mojo for this place, is what you're saying." Lucifer pulled out the knife and wiped blood onto Sam's chest. 

 Sam nodded, not trusting his voice for the moment. 

"Okay, we'll have to think further afield, bunkmate. How did you escape in the first place?" Lucifer left the knife resting on Sam's chest, and had gone back to his arm with something sharp. He forced it into bone, and Sam had to scream before responding.

"CAS—Cas, Castiel, he pulled out my body—"

Lucifer yanked out the pick and interrupted. "Yes, I know that part, Sam. How did your soul get out?" He began to force open the crack in the bone. 

"Death, Death, Death," Sam panted.

Lucifer gave him an exasperated look but didn't pause. "Really, Sam, you must have forgotten everything I taught you if you think I'll let you tap out when we've just started. Begging this early? Frankly embarrassing."

Sam shook his head frantically. "No, no, the Horseman." He made a strangled noise and bit clean through his lip at the crack of bone. Radius, he was pretty sure. The bone nearer the thumb. Ulna would come next. 

Lucifer paused and gave a shocked laugh. "Death! With a capital D! Came to rescue lil' Sammy, huh? Suppose he has the power for it. And he does hate me enough... your brother wouldn't have needed much to convince him." Back to the arm. Ulna. Still better than the paused evisceration. Sam couldn't stop a low moan. "But as for throwing you back—have you had more dealings with him, Sam?"

 "He helped us open Purgatory. Years ago." 

  _Crack_.

 Lucifer waited for Sam's scream to break into gasps. "I wondered how that happened. I felt it even here. How incredibly foolish of you." 

 "And. And he almost reaped me. Came to visit me. But he—he seemed pleased with me. So I don't. I don't think." Sam paused for breath. 

 "Another dead end, in other words," said Lucifer impatiently. He dropped the knife and set a hand on the hook again. "You're going to have to give me some kind of hypothesis, bunk buddy. I feel like I'm putting in all the effort in this relationship."

Sam swallowed. Okay, time for wild speculations. What could have done this? "Crowley?"

Lucifer made a face, but didn't move his hand. "The salesman?"

Sam managed a laugh, even though the slight motion made his stomach flare in agony. "King of Hell, nowadays."

Lucifer's expression cooled, and this time he did twist the hook in further, until Sam's scream petered off into dry heaves. "King of Hell, is that right?"

"He—he fears you," Sam got out. "Wouldn't touch this place with a hundred-foot pole."

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "So give me another name. 

"Abaddon, maybe. She, um. She knows I—what I did to you. And she's been trying to kill us for months."

"Abaddon, my faithful knight! I thought her long dead. So!" Lucifer clapped. "That's somewhere to start! I'll need to prepare a tiny little spell, ask my loyal servant if she sent this delightful gift basket."

"You can do that?" Sam panted. That—was not good. In all Sam's time in the Cage before, Lucifer never gave any sign of an ability or inclination to reach beyond his prison at will. Sam had thought all contact was made by outside efforts.

Lucifer ruffled Sam's hair with a fondness that made him sick. "How else do you think I've kept informed, Sam? Being the creator of demonkind has its perks. Lilith, Azazel, Dagon, Abaddon, the big names, the old crew—those whom I created, I can reach out to. Not without some effort. A sacrifice." He paused and stared at Sam, eyes icy, then shrugged. "Many dead, thanks to you and your brother. No hard feelings."

Sam felt sick and cold. God help him, he'd actually given Lucifer something  _useful_. And he'd barely been hurt for it. 

Lucifer ripped the spike out from Sam's wrist, sparking another surge of nauseating pain. "Up you get, Sammy boy! If Abaddon's the culprit, she does know just how to choose a gift. You're much more fun than a bottle of wine."

When Lucifer hoisted him up by the wrists, Sam screamed. He collapsed entirely, but Lucifer just dragged his wrists upward until he could force them into hanging manacles. Sam scrambled to make his uncooperative legs support his weight. Lucifer took a step back to watch, face pensive. At some point, Sam finally managed to release some strain from his ruined wrists, gasping for breath and trembling on shaking legs. 

Lucifer let him rest for a moment, then brutally kicked his legs out from under him again. Sam screamed and didn't try to stand again.

"Now, bunk buddy, don't get jealous, but I'm going to need to make a quick call. You’ll oblige the fee, I hope." Lucifer smoothed a hand down Sam's torso, then gripped the hook. He made a few adjustments, twisting the hook back and forth as Sam gagged emptily on the agony, then smoothly curved the hook in and down until the ragged end emerged again, spearing a bit of viscera. Then he began to tear the hook out.

Sam's vision whited out again. "—stop, stop, no no stop, stop, please, no, no, no—" As he came back to himself Sam managed to cut himself off with ragged sobs that quickly rose into another breathless scream. Lucifer had positioned an ornate ceramic bowl below the jagged hole in his stomach to catch blood that looked black in the blue lighting. His other hand was winding a few lengths of intestines on the hook in a practiced motion. 

"There we go. You just hold on to these—" Lucifer carefully threaded the full hook through a link in the chain above Sam's head "—and I'll be back in a jiffy." Lucifer winked, then strode away with the bowl, vanishing after a few paces. Sam was alone.


	3. Meditation Is Good For You

Sam was alone, for a little while. His arms were badly mangled—half flayed, the bones split to the marrow and broken. A bloody length of his insides was stretched across his body, from the messy wound to the hook wedged into the chains above his head. Sam turned his head and closed his eyes and concentrated on not throwing up—he knew from hard experience that retching would make his gut wound immeasurably more agonizing. 

Once his nausea was for the moment under control, Sam focused on dragging his legs back underneath himself. Otherwise, his injured wrists would give out soon. This was the work of the next stretch of time, with Sam forced to stop to scream or gasp for breath or force down bile every minute or so. It felt like Lucifer had fractured one of his shins. Finally, he managed to stand, feeling the screaming in his wrists and shoulders subside to a steady, fiery ache. The gut wound was still bleeding, collecting in a slippery puddle, but there was nothing Sam could do about that except wish he was actually capable of bleeding out in this place.

It was funny. Sam had really, honestly thought he'd never be forced to watch his own evisceration again. Maybe this was some karmic punishment for having such a wildly unrealistic fantasy, he thought darkly.

Well, he could look forward to a lot more of it now. And flaying. And whipping, and caning, and having his limb ripped off like an insect's. And freezing, and burning, and drowning, and desiccating, and starving. And--and mind games, and promises, and impossible tasks with horrible punishments. And broken bones, and needles. And the bed. And.

Sam focused on taking shallow, careful breaths, closing his eyes against the memories he didn't want to think about. It didn't really help. The agony in his body was already throwing his mind along familiar channels, worn deepdeepdeep by long decades of fear and necessity. What to do, what to beg for, endure endure, just make it through five more minutes, five more hours, months, decades, it won't get better.

He couldn't. He couldn't do this again. It was impossible. He would just—give up, or burn out, or roll over. There had to be another option, anything anything anything else. His breaths became sobs. Anything else.

There wasn't anything else. There was only this. Moment to moment, breath to breath, suffering at Lucifer's whim, begging because it pleased him, not because it would make anything better.

Sam couldn't, couldn't couldn't become that broken thing again. Sam had always been broken, ever since Lucifer first laid a hand on him.

Sam was taken apart, Sam was utterly owned, Sam was _possessed_ by Lucifer. He knew that. He’d known that forever.

Even in the bunker he’d known that. He’d known it when he began to miss time, when chunks of his life went missing, felt the slip-slide of the undertow pulling him under, pulling him back. He’d known it when he was with Amelia, felt the deep inevitability of it on nights when he couldn’t sleep, when he stared at the ceiling and tried to think about nothing. And before that, when he still had Lucifer’s voice following him, reminding him, as if he could ever forget.

Before that, before everything, he was sure he'd still known. Even before the Cage, he’d known. Before he threw himself in, when he first resolved himself to that plan, the worst thing wasn’t the fear of what would happen to him. It wasn’t even that he would never see Dean again. The worst thing was that as soon as the idea had solidified, _say yes and cast us both in_ , something had ratcheted into place. A sense of rightness, of fate. He’d always known, _this is your final resting place, this is who you belong to_.

Now there was nothing to do but exist.

Sam cried for awhile, through his periodic struggles to catch his breath against his bonds. The tears ran out and his face was hot and tight and swollen. Then he just gasped dry sobs because the pain and the pressure wouldn't let him be silent.

Later, he couldn't hold back the nausea, either. Bile joined the blood at his feet, and the hole in his gut tore further. He screamed, some, but managed to cut off the noise. He didn’t want Lucifer to return early.

Some amount of time. His feet slipped and he did not have the energy to stand again. He retched again with the renewed onslaught of pain, and breathing became harder.

Sam prayed. To Cas, at first. Then to God. Then he began to gasp pleas to every angel he knew, then any name he could list. Metatron. Naomi. Gadreel. Dean. At some point he even tried Crowley, despite the illogic.

Eventually, Sam felt his thoughts blurring and slipping away into something like death. Usually when this happened, Lucifer would drag him back to consciousness. Sam was too grateful to question the reprieve. He let himself drift into blackness.


	4. Home Is Where You Hang Your Hat

Sam opened his eyes to the bare, solid walls of his room in the Bunker. There was lingering pain, but not nearly as much as he'd expected. He didn't move. 

The clock on his nightstand read 7:03 am. He was lying on his back, on his bed, in his room, unbound. And wearing the same sleepwear he'd gone to bed in, what felt like either a day or forever ago. He sat up and hissed at the pain in his abdomen. Flicking on the lamp, he lifted his shirt. There was an ugly wound a few jagged inches long, half-healed and oozing, but no gaping tear, no viscera. He flexed his fingers, which were stiff and painful but unbroken. His arms were spidered in angry red scars, and the bones ached—he probed with his other hand, and yeah, there was definitely a fracture somewhere. His wrist was still broken where the spike had been driven through, but it wasn’t shattered. He swallowed and grimaced at the lingering soreness around his throat. The scar on his left hand was fresh, too, though not bleeding. 

Sam stood. His legs felt fine. 

He walked to the kitchen. No one. War room was empty. Sam sat at his usual spot in the library. 

Whatever mind game this was, Lucifer would find him when he was ready. In the meantime, Sam would enjoy the reprieve and pull himself back together. He would gather his resolve—no more cooperation.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Lucifer walked into the library wearing Dean and holding a mug of coffee. "Mornin'. Nice bedhead, Sammy."

Sam wasn't in the mood for games. "Fuck you."

Lucifer-as-Dean looked taken aback. "Okay, Rapunzel, I know you take your hair very seriously, but who pissed in your cornflakes?"

Sam stood and was pleased to note he was only shaking a little bit. "I won't help you. And I won't play this game."

Dean-Lucifer pulled a confused face. "Um, who's playing games, Sam? Want some coffee?"

Sam felt the helpless, stupid rage returning. "Lucifer, I know it's you, wear a different fucking face!"

Lucifer-Dean froze, expression stunned. "Wait—Sam, are you—are you hallucinating again?"

“Fuck you," Sam hissed. “You’re not fooling me, and I’m not playing."

Lucifer-wearing-Dean set his coffee down, held his hands up and approached Sam carefully. "Whoa, okay, I swear it's me. Stone number one, remember?"

Sam backed away, but quickly hit a column. "Stop, just—just stop."

"Sam, did you try the hand?" Dean-Lucifer was drawing close, but Sam wouldn't run. 

"You—you cut it open!" Sam growled. He gestured. "God, just stop pretending. Wear a different face."

Lucifer-Dean took a step back. His expression was stricken. "Look, Sam, just—I won't touch you, just try it again. I won't-I'll, um. I'll wear a different face if you try the hand thing."

Sam stared at him. "You think I need more proof? I don't. But fine." He drove his thumb into the fresh scar. 

And gaped at the shock of undeniable topside pain. He dug his thumb in deeper and stared. "Dean?"

Dean forced a smile. "Yeah, Sammy."

Sam stared for a second longer. "It's you."

Dean gestured expansively. "In all my glory."

Sam lurched forward and threw his arms around his brother. He felt a sob burst out of him. Dean patted his back awkwardly. "Whoa there, tiger. Um. Want to explain the manly hugging?" Dean pulled back and stared at Sam. "Or the fresh injuries, that would be a great start."

Suddenly feeling lightheaded, Sam stumbled to the table and collapsed into a chair. "Dean. I'm really here."

Deans face tightened. "Yeah, Sam, you're really here, I'm really here, no pink fucking spiders, right?"

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't hallucinating."

Dean pulled up another chair. "You wanna run that by me again? Because from where I was standing, it sure looked like you thought I was friggin' Lucifer. Again."

"No—I mean yes, I thought you were him, but—I wasn't seeing things," Sam said quietly. "Dean--I think I went. I went back."

Dean blew out a long breath. "So, you had one doozy of a nightmare. God knows I've been there."

Sam stood abruptly. "No. No. Dean, you—you think I don't know a nightmare when I see it? I was, I was actually, literally, back. For hours." He ran his hands through his hair. "I thought it was a dream at first, but he showed me--he cut my hand. And then. That's what the injuries are from."

Dean held up his hands placatingly. "Okay. Look, no offense, Sam, but, uh, you don't look that injured to me. Not enough for hours in Hell. You at least shouldn't be—well, walking."

Sam nodded. "I know. I'm mostly healed. Somehow. I woke up in bed like this. But all the injuries—" Sam pulled up his shirt to show his abdomen. Dean sucked in a breath. "That was from, from him cutting me open." 

Dean was frowning now, and his eyes were wide. "What the hell, Sam."

Sam coughed out a laugh. "I know. I don't know how. But I was in my bed, then in the Cage, then I was back here. I don't know how."

Dean stood. "Okay. I need a beer for this. And so do you." Instead, he grabbed the handle of whiskey on a nearby shelf, along with two shot glasses. He poured two shots, downed one, then poured another. Sam took the second shot. His hand was trembling with adrenaline and relief. 

Dean polished off the second shot, then fixed Sam with a look. "So let me get this straight. You think were actually, literally, back in the Cage."

Sam nodded wordlessly. 

"With Lucifer." 

Sam just looked at him. 

"And you're sure."

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

"Okay, okay, so, what? An illusion? A curse? Some Freddy Krueger bullshit?" 

"It felt real."

Dean fixed him with a look. "That's the point of an illusion, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "No, you don't understand. He feels... he's recognizable. His grace." For a moment Sam could feel it again. The nauseous cold purity of power searing him from the inside, leaving behind a sick, filmy residue.

Something must have shown on his face, because Dean clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "Okay, that's it, I'm calling Cas. Sam, I swear, we'll figure this out. This isn't the fucking Cage."

 

* * *

 

Cas said, "This is the Cage." He withdrew his fingers from Sam's forehead. Thankfully, his examination hadn't needed a soul-grab. Sam didn't think he could stomach that again so soon.

Dean's face was stony. "And you're sure? Could be your angel mojo isn't all back online yet."

Cas frowned at Dean. "My  _mojo_  works well enough for this purpose. Sam has been freshly wounded by Lucifer. There is no doubt. An archangel's grace leaves behind traces any of the Host could instantly recognize, Lucifer's especially. His work is—unique."

Sam stared at the solid wood of the table. The whiskey was sitting an arm's reach away. It might as well have been a mile. He couldn't move at all. 

"How the fuck did this happen, Cas? The Cage is supposed to be closed!" Dean's voice was continuing to rise steadily. 

"I don't know. There have been no disturbances in Heaven. As far as I am aware, the Cage is sealed and remains so."

"Sealed! Great, real fucking helpful, amazing—"

"Cas, can you feel any kind of demonic influence?" Sam interrupted. "A curse, maybe?" 

Cas paused, then touched his fingers to Sam's forehead again. Sam masterfully suppressed a flinch. Cas closed his eyes for a few seconds, his frown growing, before withdrawing. "There is a faint trace of magic. It is a spell of some kind, though the mark of it is fading quickly. I cannot be sure, but I suppose it could be of demonic origin. Its purpose is unclear.”

Dean scoffed. Cas ignored him.

Cas turned a solemn look on Sam. "Sam, I am sorry. I can't heal these wounds. They are of Lucifer's make, and my mojo is not strong enough to undo his workings."

"It's okay, Cas. Really, it's mostly bruising." Sam was fine with bruising. If he'd escaped this with just _bruising_ , he was more than fine, actually.

Dean growled, "How the fuck did Lucifer do this?" 

"He didn't, I don't think," murmured Sam. "He was as surprised as I was. Actually—actually asked if I did it. If it was part of some plan or something."

Dean rubbed his eyes. "Fuck. Fuck. Okay, so who could do this? What could do this?"

"My guess was, maybe, Abaddon," Sam said softly. "And Lucifer tried to contact her, so he at least thought it was viable."

"Great, so we've got a Knight of Hell gunning for your hide by siccing the fucking Devil on you?" 

"Maybe," said Sam.

"So, some—demon spell? I thought the Cage was supposed to be impenetrable to shit like that."

“Maybe not so impenetrable," Sam said quietly. "The seals are broken. Death got me out."

"And I pulled your body from the Cage," Cas added. He turned to Dean. "Abaddon is powerful. And Sam and Lucifer have a natural connection, made stronger with the ways that Lucifer has marked Sam's soul. It's not inconceivable that she could accomplish a ritual to pull his vessel to him."

"Could it work the other way around?" asked Sam. He still couldn't look up from the table. And his damn hands had started shaking again. 

Cas sounded pensive. "In theory, perhaps. But in practice, it is much more difficult to pull an archangel out of the Cage than to drag a soul down into it. The Cage was designed specifically to confine Lucifer, not to hold a human soul."

Dean made a noise of disgust. "So, you think Abby's trying to get her boss free again? Trying to use Sam as an anchor?"

"It's probable that was her intent. The requirements for such a ritual would be…immense, in terms of power and expertise. It certainly seems a more likely reason than merely an attempt to kill or remove Sam."

Sam finally looked up. Dean and Cas were both staring at him, Dean with a kind of murderous desperation and Cas with frank concern.

"Which isn't to mean Abaddon doesn't want you dead, Sam," Cas added in a way he clearly thought was reassuring.

"Thanks, Cas," said Sam. 

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. 

Cas broke it. "I will try to locate Abaddon, and I will ask Heaven about the state of the Cage. Sam, Dean... I am sorry I can't do more." 

Dean sighed. "Just let us know, Cas. And don't drop off the grid. If Abaddon's after Sam, she's after all of us."

Cas nodded, and left the room.

"Okay. First things first," said Dean. "Since Cas can't do jack shit, lemme patch you up." He pushed another shot across to Sam, a little too hard, then went for the first aid kit in the cabinet.

Sam downed it, focused on the bracing burn of the liquor to the exclusion of all else. When he was finished, Dean mutely pushed over the stash of painkillers. Sam grabbed a bit more whiskey to wash them down.

Dean brusquely cleaned and bandaged the few wounds that were still open, then splinted Sam's arm and wrist. The gash in his abdomen needed a few stitches. Dean was quiet through the process, and so was Sam. 

Sam was trying not to think, not to come to any conclusions he didn't want to face. But he'd already connected the dots. From the tightness of his expression, Dean had too. "Dean. She's going to do it again."

"If it's her. And if she knows it didn't work," countered Dean mulishly. He wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. 

"If it's her, she'll know. Because he, Lucifer certainly knows. And he's got a line to the demons he directly created." Sam couldn't feel his feet. There was a pit yawning beneath him. "Dean, I think I'm going back."

Dean slammed the kit shut. "No. No, okay? Fuck no, no, that is not happening. We'll find Abaddon and dice her up if we have to. She is not gonna get away with, with cursing you, or whatever she did." His expression was fierce. 

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said quietly. He stared at his hands. They didn't look right—like big white spiders. The new scars were very bright against the paleness of his skin.

Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam's nose. "No. Look at me, okay? Research time. We are all gonna find out how this is happening.” He slammed a book on the table. "Coffee? Coffee." Dean nodded without waiting for an answer, and made an about-face to the kitchen.


	5. Dear Abby

Some hours later, Dean's eyes were stinging. The Mark on his arm itched, and he scratched at it. Between them, Sam and Dean had managed to form a pile of books on demonic curses, transportation spells, and some heap of something in ancient Babylonian or some shit that Sam kept pawing through. It had all led exactly nowhere.

Dean was pretty sure Sam was responsible for at least two thirds of the pile, and most of the two pots of coffee they'd gone through. He’d been almost completely silent for the past several hours, answering Dean’s prods with monosyllables, if at all.

Dean hadn’t asked anything more about the Cage. Sam's face was drawn and pale, and every so often he rubbed absentmindedly at his left palm. He was staring at a book intently. He also hadn’t turned the page in at least ten minutes.

Sam was slipping away. Sam said he was fine, or as fine as he could be. Which meant red alert on the Winchester Scale of Fucked-Up-ness. Sam wasn't fine. When had Sam last been fine?

Sometimes, it felt like Dean had spent his whole life staring at Sam with an alarm ringing. _Danger, danger, hold on tight_. Sat at their library table in their secret underground bunker, sipping coffee, safe as he had ever been, and every time Dean looked at Sam he could only see him falling.

The safest fucking place they’d ever known, the first real home, and Sam had been supernaturally abducted from his bed. By Lucifer. Or at least on Lucifer’s behalf. It was always Lucifer, with Sam. The asshole archangel that wouldn’t stay out of their lives. The apocalypse, or a demon army, or messing with Sam’s head, or even the fucking Mark—Dean pushed back his chair with an abrupt screech that made Sam jump and drop his book. Dean could see the whites all the way around his eyes.

“Coffee,” Dean said by way of excuse. Of course, now he had to go get some.

When he came back from the kitchen with a fresh pot, Sam sat typing, his foot moving in an anxious rhythm under the desk. Dean sat and stared at his brother. Less than a day ago, Dean had been asleep on a memory foam mattress, and Sam been in Hell.

Dean could imagine it. He didn’t want to, but he could.

What would his brother look like on a rack. The sounds he would make, hoarse screams, rough sobs. The red warmth of his innards, the sharp crack of bone breaking, tight snap-rip of a barbed whip across his abdomen. The First Blade, digging in, digging under his ribs, pulling, slowly, slowly—

“You okay?” Sam was staring at him. His eyes fell to Dean’s arm, and Dean looked down. His knuckles were white where he was grasping the Mark, angry red through his fingers.

“Yeah. Fine.” Dean wished he could throw up, but he just felt hungry. The lurid images behind his eyes didn’t shift.

Well, Dean knew when to call in cavalry. He pushed back from the table (again, the screech of the chair, and again Sam flinched) and rubbed his eyes. "We need some help on this one. If it really is Abaddon, then we should ask Crowley." He’d been hesitant to bring Crowley up, given the recent possession debacle.

He waited for the inevitable objection. Sam ran a hand through his hair without meeting Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, I agree."

“Listen, Sam, I hate the guy too, but this is—wait, you do?” To be fair, Dean’s pretty sure Sam would have objected in almost any other situation. _Had_ objected, even.

“Yeah, Dean. Crowley’s our best option on figuring out if this is her. He’s pretty much the least of all possible evils at this point.”

“You—I mean, yeah, that’s good. Okay. So. Summoning?”

“Summoning.”

 

* * *

 

Crowley looked prim as ever, designer suit spotless and hopelessly out of place in the back of the rundown diner. “Squirrel. Moose. My least favorite lumberjack models."

Dean was in no mood. "Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it, Crowley. We've got a problem."

"You've got a problem?” Crowley hissed, leaning in across the greasy table. “I've got a problem! Or have you forgotten that Abaddon is the problem!"

Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, this has to do with her.”

“Oh for the love of— I've got enough Abaddon problems on my plate without you two adding more. What, is she eating more babies? Because I honestly have bigger priorities than your silly crusades to—”

Okay, Dean was officially sick of Crowley Bullshit Hour. “It also has to do with Lucifer. Does that get your attention?”

Crowley paused mid-rant, but collected himself quickly. “Lucifer. We talking about the same Lucifer here? The one confined permanently to the bloody Cage, and not, say, some small-time necromancer with an uppity name? The titles these people come up with—“

This time Sam broke in. “Yes. Actual Lucifer. You’re always bragging about your intel. Abaddon pulled off any rituals lately?”

“Are you bigger than a bloody barn  _and_  dumber than one? She’s a Knight of Hell. She’s raising an army. Demonic magic is literally in her blood. She 'pulls off' spells all the time! Summonings, bindings, curses, all like blinking.”

Sam shook his head. “Yes, but this would be something big. Something notable. Within the last few days. Lots of sacrifices, would need a major focus, maybe a site of power, ritual defilement...”

Crowley sat back in his booth. “A major ritual. That has to do with Lucifer. You think she’s trying to bust open the Cage.”

Dean scoffed. “More like, already tried. Past tense. We need to make sure she can’t do it again.”

“Okay. There is something. A group of my demons went missing near Toledo, two days ago. They were investigating rumors of a gathering of Abaddon loyalists. But I haven't heard hide nor hair of the gathering since, from any source, and my men haven’t checked back in. Was just getting ready to investigate, actually.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “By investigate, do you mean throw more of your minions at the problem and hope it goes away?”

“Well, lah-dee-dah! Look at you on your high horse! But keep in mind I’ve died only once, whereas you and Sundance have average life expectancies somehow even lower than your IQ. Which, to be clear, is in the decimal range.”

Sam rubbed his forehead. “Look, Crowley. This is Lucifer. Can you back us up, or not?”

“Moose, you still haven’t explained where you got your intel.”

Dean glanced sideways at Sam, but Sam didn’t skip a beat as he replied. “Not important. But it’s reliable.”

“So, blah blah blah. Details the common foot soldier can’t be arsed to care about. I see.”

Sam leaned forward, intent on the prize. “You think I would lie about this? You’re really willing to risk her pulling this off?”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment. “Abaddon doesn’t care about keeping Hell running smoothly. She's one of the old, old guard. Mayhem, murder. No sense of politics. Or interior design. All rotting corpses and old blood, nothing tasteful. Nothing subtle.”

“Your point being?” Dean snapped.

Crowley steepled his fingers. “If—and this is a big if—she’s willing to try something of this complexity, it’s bad news. So. Fine. It’s worth it having you two as free meat shields, anyway. Let’s check out the site.”

 

* * *

  

Crowley zapped them to a patch of woods just outside of what could only generously be called a church. The steeple was half-caved in. Vines gripped the cracked stone. Even at this range, Dean could smell the blood.

Sam’s face was grim. “This the place?”

Crowley sniffed and brushed his hands off. “No, you moron, I just  _enjoy_  acting as an up-jumped taxi service for you and Anger Issues.”

Dean brushed roughly past Crowley. “Shut the fuck up.”

They approached the front of the old chapel in silence, staying in the cover of the trees. Dean drew the demon blade and felt the Mark pulse.

The wooden front door was long since rotted away. Two figures stood just inside the ruined chapel, only just visible against the gloom of the setting sun.

Sam had seen them too. “Dean. Demons. Could be more. I’ll sneak around the--"

Dean tightened his grip on the demon blade and, ignoring Crowley’s outraged splutter, strode purposefully out from the cover of the brush. “You two work for Abaddon?”

Their heads snapped towards him. The first demon was wearing a woman in her early thirties, professionally dressed. Her lips pulled into a smirk. “Dean Winchester! We’ve been—“

Dean sped into a sprint to cover the last few yards separating them, and drove the knife up under her jaw. Orange sparks flashed behind her pretty face, and she collapsed like a sack of bricks.

The other demon, wearing a pimpled 20-something and a Green Day t-shirt, jumped back and fumbled for his weapon.

Dean didn’t let him draw it. He barreled straight into him, pinning him against the crumbling stone wall and wedging the knife under his jaw.

“Whoa, wait—hey! You can’t just—“

“Can’t I?” Dean growled. The Mark stood out livid against his skin, visible even in the gloom. “Unless you want to join your friend there, you’re gonna tell me where Abby is, what she’s planning, and every last tiny detail of whatever fucked up spell you pulled off here!"  
  
He felt Sam’s presence at his back, and pressed the knife in a little harder. The demon gurgled. “She’s— she—"

“Well. If it isn't my two favorite handsome little cockroaches.”

Dean drove the knife through the demon’s eye and whirled around. Abaddon's lipsticked mouth looked like a jagged wound across Josie’s stolen face. She stood in the middle of the dim church, which—now that Dean was paying attention—looked like the middle of a slaughterhouse. Blood covered the floor in looping designs, and had splattered up onto the walls. There was a pile of corpses next to the broken altar.

Sam leveled a gun at Abaddon’s center of mass. Crowley, who had just entered, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"And the salesman who thinks he’s a king! I've been looking for you everywhere, Crowley. Been, hm. Anticipating this conversation.”

Crowley looked green, but tried for a sickly smile. “Darling, if you wanted an audience all you had to do was ask.”

Abaddon ignored him. “Sam, you’re looking well. Handsome as ever. I get what Lucifer sees in you, I really do.”

That didn’t deserve a response, so Dean said, “Bitch. What did you do here.”

Abaddon laughed, and gestured, and a wave of force pinned Dean against the blood-splattered wall. Fucking demons. Sam and Crowley were in the same boat, struggling against her invisible power on the opposite side of the tiny chapel. “What, this? Just a little ritual. But that was yesterday. I only came because you killed my little proximity alarms.”

Sam spoke up, straining against the power pinning him. “Trying to breach the Cage. It didn't work.”

“Really? I heard you got through just fine,” purred Abaddon. 

“You 'got through' the Cage? Again?” Crowley hissed.

Sam ignored him. “But Lucifer didn't. And won't. It failed, and you won't have the chance to try again.”

"Again!" Her head threw back in a delighted laugh, white teeth flashing in the gloom. " _Again_. No need for that! My rituals don’t fail. I'd say I gave that spell enough juice to last for--oh, at least another human lifetime. Not that it will take nearly as long as that to break down the door, so to speak. Your connection to Lucifer is really impressively strong, Sam. You're making an excellent battering ram."

Sam went pale. He opened his mouth for a retort, but said nothing.

Dean’s stomach dropped. “You mean...”

Her red lips curled into a lipsticked smirk. “It's already done. What happened to you, Sam? It’s going to happen again, and again, and again. Until the Cage is utterly broken."

Sam was utterly still and silent. That was okay, Dean could yell for both of them. "You--you fucking BITCH, I'm going to END you--" Abaddon cut him off with a wave of her hand, and Dean screamed soundlessly. He wrenched against the invisible bonds until he felt something pop. 

She bent, brushed a hand through the congealing pools of blood on the ground. "Honestly, the whole thing went off without a hitch. You boys should have seen it. All those delicious sacrifices, enough to feel like the old times again.” She winked and licked her finger. "Virgins, souls--demons too, thanks for that donation, Crowley.”

Crowley suddenly lashed out with a burst of power, releasing himself from the wall and knocking Abaddon back a few paces. "You insane bint, do you have any idea what opening that Cage will do?!"

"More of an idea than you, I'm sure.”

"Lucifer will kill us all! And not quickly. Just ask Moose!"

Abaddon tilted her head. "Oh, he will certainly kill you, and your ilk. Not me. Not his Knights. He created us, chose us, specifically, to bring about his will."

“He hates demonkind!”

“Mm. And well he should. _Demonkind_ has grown so weak and petty. It needs a good culling. He'll start again, build a new order. So much better than these sycophantic dregs you call followers.”

“You don’t—"

Abaddon cut him off with a manicured hand, tightened it into a fist. Crowley choked. “I need _them_ alive, but I really would prefer you dead, dear."

Crowley coughed, stumbled back a step, and vanished with a faint pop.

Abaddon rolled her eyes. “Eh. Oh well. I want to kill him slowly anyway.”

She released her hold. She was still smirking faintly. Dean dove for the knife. Across the room, Sam collapsed to the ground, strings cut. 

Dean was shaking. The Mark was burning. His jaw hurt from how hard it was clenched. He stood up slowly, grasping the knife. “There’s gonna be a way to stop this spell. And when we stop it, you’re gonna _wish_ I killed you slowly.”

Abaddon smiled. It looked too wide for her face, with too many teeth. "You boys are free to go! Sam Winchester, my power will drag you back and forth, Hell and Earth, until the walls come tumbling down and our true King returns. Every three days. Three minutes. Set your clocks to it.”

Dean charged forward with a hoarse yell, but Abaddon had already vanished. 


	6. Punching The Clock

  
Day 1: Dean

Dean had barely slept the night before, after Abaddon's revelation and the subsequent flurry of research, but he was pretty sure Sam never even left the library. Sam was hunched over a calendar and a stack of papers. He jolted upright when Dean set down two mugs of coffee, and Dean could see that he had marked every third day for the next four weeks. Dean thought about Lisa penciling in a discreet dot one day every month and had an insane urge to laugh.

Marking down your periods, Sammy? he didn't say. Always nice when your torturers give you a fucking day planner, huh, Sammy, he didn't say. He did say, “Did you sleep?”

Sam made an annoyed face and reached for the coffee. “I was just looking up some astrological charts, seeing if this ritual might have a dependence on celestial phase.”

Dean slid him the mug. “I’ll take that as a no."

"We might be able to reverse engineer a spell for the next full moon. Cas says--"

“Wait. The  _next full moon_? Seriously? Here’s a better plan: we just get the bitch and make her tell us how to undo this.”

Sam blew on his mug. “Dean. You heard her. It’s done. There’s nothing to undo, we need to trick it—or circumvent it, or retarget it. Sabotage it."

Dean ground his teeth and pulled out a chair. “Fine. We just get the bitch and make her tell us how to  _sabotage_  this.”

“She’s a Knight of Hell,” said Sam tiredly. He put down the mug and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “She’s ancient, and powerful. She’s not going to be very susceptible to capture. Or interrogation.”

“We’ve captured her before. And we’ve interrogated plenty of ancient things,” Dean grumbled. Not always successfully, sure. But it was true.

Sam was already shaking his head. “We haven’t even got a way to track her, Dean! And there’s no guarantee Abaddon even knows a way to stop or change this ritual, once it’s set off. When I showed Cas the pictures of the site, he was pretty sure it’s designed to be a cannon—touch it off and make sure you’re out of the way.”

Dean set down his mug, hard, and ignored Sam's twitch. "So, what, you don’t think the simplest way is worth a shot? Or have you forgotten this thing is on a timer."

Sam’s mouth twisted and a muscle jumped in his jaw. "I hadn't forgotten,” he said, stiffly.

“Glad to hear it," said Dean. "So you know we need a solution  _now_ , as in, in the next 48 hours, not at the next full fucking moon!”

Sam shook his head. His expression was horribly sympathetic, like he was softening a blow for Dean. Like  _Dean_  was the one getting hit. “We won’t find anything in time. You know that as well as I do,” he said, all gentle.

A voice in Dean's head said,  _true_. “Fuck that,” said Dean.

Sam’s expression turned placating, careful,  _look-how-reasonable-I-am_. “Look, she said it only lasts three minutes. That’s only six hours, Hell-time. And Cas says it will take at least two months of trying before the Cage weakens enough to put us in any real danger. We—we have time.”

Dean kind of wanted to hit him, right in his reasonable face. “God, Sam, what’s wrong with you? Do you even listen to yourself? Stop—stop analyzing this.”

Sam glanced away from Dean, down at his notes. He cleared his throat. Like it was any other case file, like he could arrange an counter-argument. “Dean, listen—"

Dean yanked the pile towards him. “No. Stop that. We need a better solution. Don’t just fucking lie down and take it!"

Sam stiffened, and his mouth thinned. “What else am I supposed to do, Dean.” His face was a blank, dead mask. At least he’d dropped the soothing bullshit.

"Get angry! This isn’t okay, okay?” shouted Dean.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said coolly.

Dean threw up his arms, gave a hard laugh. “Okay. So, what, you want me to just act like—like everything's fine? Yeah, Sam, sure, you’re just dropping downstairs to kibbitz with the devil twice a week, it’s all hunky-dory!”

Sam had this weird half-smile now, looking at Dean like he was the crazy one. “Obviously it’s not _fine_ , Dean. But, six hours. It could be a hell of a lot worse.”

Dean scoffed. “That word choice deliberate?”

“Funny,” said Sam.

“I’m not laughing,” growled Dean.

Sam snorted, then scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “I guess I just don’t see the point in trying to make myself miserable. I figure soon enough—“ Dean could _see_ him forcibly drop the thought mid-sentence, a little head shake to knock it loose. “Look, can we not do this?”

"I can’t believe you,” Dean hissed. "I can’t believe you’re just gonna roll over.” He was vaguely aware that he was angling for a fight, fists on the table, anything to break the awful complacency.

Sam looked at him. His eyes flashed with something too quick to name, and his lip curled, and for a second Dean hoped—he didn’t know what, that Sam would yell? Scream, rage? Throw a punch? That hadn’t been Sam, not for years.

Sam just let out a loud breath and put his palms flat. Neutral. "You want me to be angry. How can you ask me that?”

What. "What’s that supposed to mean.”

Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. “What are you gonna do? If I don’t do it your way.”

Dean’s grip on the table creaked, his teeth gritted. "Jesus, Sam, you don’t even—"

“You gonna stuff another angel in me?” Sam looked up, and his face was stone.

What the hell. "What the hell—how can you even compare that? Sam, I saved your life!”

"Yeah. Okay. Well, I’m alive, except for every third day apparently, so I guess you win.”

“This—this has nothing to do with that!” Dean’s head was spinning from the whiplash. His fists were on the table, he was leaning far over, eye-to-eye with Sam and enraged.

Sam’s stony expression hadn’t budged an inch. “See. You’re furious that I’m mad about what you did. And I just keep thinking—on top of Kevin, and _everything else_ —I’d be in heaven right now, if you hadn’t."

Ice-water to Dean’s spine. His anger evaporated.

Sam must have seen it on his face, because he softened. “Look. It’s not—I don’t blame you for, for that part of it. You couldn’t have known what Abaddon would do. But. For the rest of it. He was in me for months. And you lied to me, and I can’t trust my own head, and I can’t trust you, and now…”

Dean swallowed. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

Sam shook his head. "Look, I’m just saying, I can’t—just, stop telling me how I have to deal with this. I can’t. I just can’t be angry."

“Sam.”

Sam pulled back the papers, began to rifle through them. “It’s just six hours, and I’ll come back pretty much healed.” He was saying the words as much to himself as Dean. Dean thought about what he could do to Sam in six hours, and swallowed hard. The Mark throbbed.


	7. Some Platitudes

Day 3: Dean

At 6:44 AM of the third day, Sam and Dean stood in the Bunker dungeon. The whole place stank of blood and incense, and the concrete and bricks were covered in spellwork. Neither of them really thought any of the protections here, new or old, would block a curse that none of the Bunker’s original shields had managed to stop, but it was still worth a shot. Anything was worth a shot. Dean already had the first aid kit and a cot waiting.  

Sam hadn’t been precisely sure when Abaddon’s ritual would activate, but this time they were both keeping a close eye on the clock.  

The past two days had been a delirium of research. It was enough to have Dean climbing the walls, and somehow there was always _another_ book of old wards, or ecclesiastical purification magics, or blood rituals, all of which contained exactly zilch on what to do if a psycho demon knight cursed your brother to the deepest corner of Hell. 

By coincidence, _zilch_ also happened to be the number of leads they'd found on Abaddon, even with Crowley and Cas helping. At least all the boring treatises on this Kanarese symbol or that Etruscan ritual meant Sam had eventually crashed and gotten a few hours of sleep, sometime deep into his third day awake.

Cas had also brought back heavenly news, which, as always, was a phrase that sounded a thousand percent more helpful and interesting than it actually was. Apparently, the winged dicks had their feathers ruffled by that first attempt to knock the Cage door down. Well, Dean supposed they were a bit less winged these days. Still dicks, though. Cas was pretty sure they were already picking kickball teams for Apocalypse Round 2, on top of the usual factions bullshit, so there wasn’t going to be any help from that corner. As per usual.

Right now, the plan was to try any ward or ritual that had a shot. In other words, there was no plan. Still, he and Sam had stacked the dungeon with spells, purifying tokens, hex bags, and pretty much every piece of redirection and abjuration magic they’d been able to find. There were about eight different layers of bloody sigils woven in spiraling rings. Cas had contributed a glowing network of interlocking Enochian symbols that made Dean’s eyes ache to look at for too long. The whole place reeked of burnt herbs and the ozone stench of magic. 

“You know, I’m pretty sure you can’t break an arcane link to Hell by grabbing my arm hard enough,” said Sam. He wasn’t looking away from the clock on the table. Maybe the attempt at a joke would’ve been less weak if his face wasn’t so gray.           

Dean didn’t lighten the pressure of his grip. “Real funny, Sam."

Sam managed a fleeting grin. “I’m not laughing.”

Together, they watched the clock tick to 6:50, then 6:55. Watching the clock, waiting for the inevitable, just like that night (fifty years, or a decade ago?) when the hounds came to drag Dean to Hell, but this time it was so much worse. This time it was his brother being dragged off instead, for no _fucking reason_ , and this time there was no fear of the unknown—just sick, certain knowledge. 

This time there weren’t hounds or demons.There was no light show, no gradual disappearance, no fireworks, no fanfare. Dean was gripping Sam’s arm, and then Sam was gone and he was grabbing thin air. Dean had promised to check the clock, so he checked the fucking clock. The time was forty-one seconds past 6:58 am. 

He kicked the cot’s metal leg,  _hard._ It screeched a few inches across the concrete. It hurt, but not enough, so he punched the wall, too, so that bright red pain lanced through his knuckles. Again. Brick on bone, blood on brick. Then he waited, shaking and doing absolutely nothing while Sam was being tortured in Hell. Would he even come back, this time? Sure, Abaddon and Cas had both said he would, but the universe liked nothing better than kicking the Winchesters while they were down. 

Dean knew with sudden, startling clarity that he’d be taking this out on someone who didn’t deserve it, if he were in public. The thought didn’t make him sick enough. The whole world deserved it, deserved to pay for what was happening to Sam right now. 

What was the point. What had been the fucking point, of the fucking Gadreel fiasco, saving Sam, of weathering Sam’s anger, just to watch this happen. Every time. Every time Dean tried to help, he just hurt. Every time he held on tighter, Sam got pulled through his fingers. Or maybe he just held Sam so tight that it was Dean bruising him, breaking him smaller and smaller. _What is the upside of me being alive_ , Sam had said. 

There was nothing to think about—nothing he could _handle_ thinking about— so Dean focused on that sick, hungry fire behind his sinuses, rage or grief or despair or empty doggedness, he couldn’t tell, they were all the same feeling anyway. He paced and paced and the walls spun out around him and his mind spun in a thousand dark bloody directions. 

 

 

Exactly 180 seconds after Sam had vanished, he reappeared, standing in the center of the pointless wards where he'd been three minutes ago. 

Dean’s fire was doused in a shock of cold, cold relief. Sam was back. Sam was hurt. Sam would live. Sam's face was bone-pale, and he stumbled. 

Dean was empty of feeling, just ice in his veins. His hands didn’t shake as he went to triage, as he caught Sam’s upper arms and sat him on the waiting cot. “Sammy? Sam! Hey, hey, stay with me.” 

Sam sagged forward, his hair falling into his eyes so Dean couldn’t see his expression.

“Sam! Where are you hurt.” His hands ran over Sam’s stomach, sides, arms, back. Sam hissed and flinched. 

“Shoulders. Back,” he mumbled. He was hunching, sitting stiffly. 

“There anything broken?” Sam was only wearing a loose button up shirt made of cheap cotton, his ever-so-practical idea to make dealing with the inevitable injuries easier. He was still wearing the splint on his arm, and underneath the skin was chafed red ( _manacles_ , Dean’s mind murmured, but he had long practice not thinking about the things his mind said) but the swelling from the fracture was gone. That was good, that was a relief—meant they wouldn’t have to deal with accumulating injuries. 

“Don’t think so.” Sam’s voice was low and hoarse. First things first. Dean handed Sam a glass of water and two of the heavy-duty painkillers, big round yellow ones. 

Once Sam had downed the pills, Dean helped him awkwardly slide the shirt off. When he guided Sam to lie on his stomach, Sam went without protest. The cold empty feeling in Dean’s gut rose further, up his chest and behind his eyes. Sam’s back was a fucking mess. Ugly red lines layered and crisscrossed in a brutal sheet. Too many to count, so many that in places they’d melted together, a mess of scarred swollen skin. Underneath, a mat of bruises ranged in color from nauseous yellow-green to livid blue. It covered his entire back and dipped below the waistband of his jeans.  

The aftermath of being whipped with something thin and heavy, though it was well into healing. Fading welts and scars, no broken skin, no blood, old bruises.  Dean could see, though, where each lash would have fallen—he imagined snapping a metal cane down, drawing thick lines of blood, over and over until the skin was all gone. He traced one of the lines with a fingertip. Sam jerked away. Dean forced that image out of his mind. 

“Okay, gonna need ice for this, but nothing’s cut up. Anywhere else you could be bleeding?”

Sam shook his head. He was shivering. Dean covered Sam’s shoulders with a blanket and helped him sit up.  

It was only when Sam was fully upright that Dean was able to see his face clearly. Sam’s eyes were screwed up and his mouth was twisted. He looked sick and exhausted, face pale and bruised. And he was crying, completely without sound. 

A punch of something hot roiled through Dean’s chest so fast and fierce he missed a breath. The icy clarity vanished, and he realized that he was shaking. “Hey. Sam.” Sam angled his face away again, and buried his eyes in one big hand. “Sam. It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re back. We’ll get you fixed up. Yeah?”

Sam nodded, face still hidden.

“Sam. You're okay." Dean couldn’t look away. It felt like it would be a betrayal.

“I want—I’m gonna take a shower, I think,” said Sam. His voice was thick, strangled. Like he was choking himself with the effort to shove it all down. The attempt made Dean’s throat ache to hear.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, do that, I’ll have more ice packs ready.” Dean reached for Sam, to help him stand. "Let me—“

But Sam jerked away, stumbling upright, clutching the blanket around his shoulders and hunching and heading for the door. “No, pl—no. Don’t. No, I’m fine, just. I’m gonna shower.”

“Okay,” said Dean weakly. Felt like he just kept saying _okay_ , some stupid useless thing over and over. Story of his life. 

He stood alone in the dungeon for a long, long minute and listened to Sam make his way upstairs.

 


	8. In All The Wrong Places

Day 3: Sam

Why was the pain harder to bear with Dean than with Lucifer? 

Sam was in the shower, trying to stop crying. Sam hadn’t been crying, in Hell. He’d been fine, he’d been holding up _fine_ , not obeying or falling back on old habits, mostly just not thinking about anything. _Put your head down and get through it, you’ll have worse, you’ll have better, day in the life_. And then he was back on Earth and Dean was touching him so _gently_ and that more than anything became too much. Why _that_ , why had the barest fucking shreds of Dean’s comfort made him feel more raw and exposed than the way that Lucifer had whipped his back open to the bone and scraped his nails along Sam’s ribcage?

Okay, so, Sam wasn’t stupid, he knew why. He just hated it. He hated that he was used to it, that Lucifer had seen him so low, so many times, so many ways, that there was a twisted kind of familiarity in it. A comfort. Mutual understanding. An—an intimacy that made him sick to think about but could hardly be denied. In a horrible, nauseating way, he knew Lucifer more than he knew Dean. 

 _That’s not all, that's not the only reason_ , Lucifer’s voice murmured sympathetically. _You also_ trust _me more than you trust Dean._

That voice wasn’t real, it was only in his head. 

He stuck his face under the water, trying to get a grip. 

For as much as he and Dean had been tortured in their lives—which was a hell of a lot, hah—there weren’t actually many times that they’d dealt with the immediacy of the aftermath together. In the Cage, Lucifer had reassembled him. Dean said the Pit itself reset all the souls at the end of some subjective day. When each of them had returned from hell, there’d been distance to the damage, both physically and mentally. Dean had said the memories had returned in flashes, in traumatic blurry chunks delivered piecemeal. And Sam'd had the wall, of course, and soullessness. 

Had they ever really, seriously been tortured on earth? There were injuries, sure, lots, bad ones, but stuff like that was miles away from someone holding you down to hurt you on purpose. They’d been captured and kidnapped, maybe slapped around, yeah, but sincere torture? There was the time Zachariah stole his lungs. The ghouls that had tied him down and fed from him. Being electrocuted in the mental hospital. There was the time Alastair had beaten Dean very nearly to death. Lucifer had done that, too, using Sam. 

 _Et cetera, et cetera_. And there were definitely incidents that qualified he was forgetting. What even "qualified" as torture aboveground? There was plenty of stuff that was categorically impossible to accomplish on Earth simply because it required a body that couldn’t die. Plus, pain felt different, somehow. So the line should definitely be drawn in a different place up here. Sam was pretty sure his scale was a little skewed, anyway. 

Maybe all that was why, here on Earth, the experience of having minutes ago been tortured past death was actually managing to be pretty novel. 

Still, Dean had put him back together hundreds of times, from much worse injuries than these. Dean’s tentative attempts at comfort should have made it _better_ , not abruptly, unbearably worse. Dean’s should have been the more familiar touches. That connection, a lifetime with his brother who cared about him, who loved him and protected him and sacrificed for him, even if recently things weren’t great; that should have felt more real than hell. Instead, when the ritual had yo-yo'ed him back to the bunker it felt like he’d left home instead of come back to it. And he hated the feeling. The Cage wasn’t home. A few months ago he’d felt so good here—optimistic, safe. Apparently that had just been the angel roofies talking. Sam shuddered and reached for the soap. 

His back twinged. Suddenly the prospect of ice sounded amazing. 

 

* * *

 

When Sam made his way out into the library, feeling a little less raw and a little more human, Cas was waiting. 

Dean had left a stack of ice packs on the table, but had apparently retreated elsewhere, which made Sam relieved in spite of himself. He released a tense breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and snatched an ice pack from the table. He held it to his back with a sigh and levered himself into a chair.

Cas was staring at him. His face was strained and full of something like guilt, and his eyes were squinty and penetrating and very blue. "Sam. How are you feeling?"

“Fine,” Sam said shortly. He was already on edge, his back hurt, he really needed Cas to stop looking at him like that. 

"You don’t seem... _fine_.” It felt like Cas could see all the way through him, to his shredded soul. Duct tape and safety pins. 

“Do we really have to go through this? I said I’m fine, drop it,” snapped Sam.   

“Right." Cas nodded and looked a little abashed. He finally broke eye contact, and Sam felt bizarrely guilty. _Don’t yell at your friends, Sam, you’ve only got the one._

He cleared his throat. “Look, there was something I wanted to run by you. About the spell.”

“Of course.” 

“Is, um. Is there any of Lucifer’s grace? Left in me?” 

Cas’s eyebrows lifted. “As with Gadreel, you mean? I hadn’t thought of that."

Sam had. At the time, it had only been an unpleasant irrelevancy. But now… “Would extracting it weaken the spell?"

“Even with Gadreel I was unable to extract all of the grace—“

Sam plowed past Cas's objection. “But, if it dilutes the connection at all, that will make the spell easier to break. Right?”

Cas looked supremely uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck, a new and distinctly human gesture. “I—perhaps. I’m not sure. It could be one tie to him. But I did not feel Lucifer, when we tried before. It would be deeper. Older. And it would be much more well-tethered. Or faded. Or integrated, I’m not an expert."

“But we could try, right?” said Sam. 

Cas shook his head, forehead creasing in frustration. “Sam, it would likely kill you, and with only the slightest chance that I would _detect_ any part of Lucifer, much less extract it."

“But you’re saying there is a chance,” said Sam, leaning in, something mounting in his chest.

“No. There is no chance,” said Cas, grim, voice rising. "Because I will not help you hurt yourself to accomplish nothing!"

Sam made a short, angry sound. "How is finding a way to break this spell _nothing_? I’d gladly die to do that!"

Cas’s face twisted in fury, and he rounded on Sam. "And I would not gladly kill you!”

Sam flinched back in the chair.

The words echoed for a moment. Sam realized they’d both been shouting, and hoped Dean hadn’t heard. 

Cas sighed, and his anger deflated. He seemed to diminish in some important way. “Sam, please know I would do anything in my power to break this curse and keep Lucifer from you.”

"I—I know you would, Cas.” Sam’s voice was hoarse. Cas looked small and exhausted. That was what caring about Sam had done to him. _I’m so sorry_ , Sam thought.

Cas gathered himself, then fixed Sam with a serious gaze. “I truly believe attempting to extract any remaining piece of Lucifer’s grace from you would not accomplish any erosion of the curse, and would damage you badly.”

“Okay,” said Sam quietly. 

“Do you believe me?”

“Yeah, Cas.” Sam did believe him. He retrieved the ice pack, which had fallen, and tried to pretend he hadn’t had a moment of hope.

Cas was silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. Sam grabbed some more ice and shifted in the chair. The ice packs did help, and they were the fancy type with a flexible cold pouch and velcro elastic straps that let you wrap them in place. New, too. He wondered when Dean had bought them. The Winchesters were usually more the "frozen peas" type.    

"I’m sorry I wasn’t here this morning,” said Cas, finally. "I was following a lead on a ritual that might help." 

Sam looked up from messing with the fancy ice pack straps. “What ritual?”

Cas didn’t meet his eyes. "I don’t know if it will help yet. I don’t even know all the ingredients. I… need to do something first. But I will find a solution, Sam, I _swear_ it.” 

Evasion. That definitely wasn’t a bad sign, no sir. “Cas, can you let us know where you’ll be? If you need backup? Or I can help figure out the ingredients.”

Cas shook his head. “It will be nothing the Men of Letters have ever heard of. Only a select few of my siblings know. And you and Dean will certainly not be an asset in dealing with them.” He paused. “No offense," he added belatedly. 

Sam managed a smile. “Fine. Look, just keep in touch, okay? And let us know what you’re working on. We want to know you’re safe."

"When have any of us ever been safe?” murmured Cas. 

There wasn’t an answer to that. Sam rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. There were three more days to find something before the next round. Sam was pretty sure, whatever Cas tried, he wouldn’t find anything in that amount of time. 

 

* * *

 

Day 6: Sam

They hadn’t found anything. 

It wasn’t getting easier yet, to stand there with Dean and allow himself be yanked back to Lucifer. But Sam was sure it would get easier eventually. 

 

"And how are we feeling today, Sam? Not too sore, I hope?"

Sam flinched back against the bars. Lucifer caught his wrists and pinned them either side of his head. His eyes were colorless and intense in the gray-blue light, and he smirked. "I’ve got some old classics today. Or we can try something new. Up to you."

"Fuck off.” In the spirit of self-preservation, Sam had long ago learned to read Lucifer’s moods. Today, he seemed in good enough humor—willing to tolerate some level of backtalk. Full of idle energy. 

"Mouthy. I like it. It’s  _fresh_. I missed that joie de vivre.” 

And talkative, of course. That was hardly rare. Sam closed his eyes, took just a moment to brace himself. He’d done it before, he’d do it again, he would survive the next six hours. He just needed a moment.   

 

* * *

 

Lucifer’s eyes were half-lidded in contentment, like a cat’s. "Mmmm. It’s funny, really, that _this_ is still one of the things you dread the most. Even when I’ve got it turned on low—how’s this? Still coherent?”

He paused solicitously for a reply. Sam didn’t give him one. He didn’t trust his voice, not with Lucifer’s hand in his soul up to the forearm for the second time in a week. Even if, sure enough, the pain wasn’t actually too horrible right now. He could think through it, at least.

"Poor Sam. You hate this so much, don’t you, when I’m in your soul. It doesn’t have to hurt, you know. Once, you loved it. You loved me.” Old taunts, playful ones. Ones Sam still couldn’t help but respond to, even though he knew it was a mistake. It would be even more of a mistake to let them pass completely without challenge. 

“I d-didn’t,” Sam managed through gritted teeth. 

Lucifer sighed. “Don’t lie, Sam." 

"I— _didn’t_.” His voice came out pleading instead of defiant. 

"You did. You told me so. Your soul screamed it.” 

“ _No_." 

"Denial isn’t a good look on you, bunkm—“

Lucifer cut off abruptly, eyes blown wide in genuine shock. The pain suddenly doubled, and Sam yelped. “What’s this. Oh, Sam.  _Sam_. Have you been _cheating_ on me?”

Sam froze. Past the agony of Lucifer’s grip, he felt a flush of shame and panic. Of course Lucifer would see the stain Gadreel left behind. Of course he would feel it, and  _know_ what had been done to Sam. And have a field day. 

Then Lucifer was _searching_ , prying, raking, tearing through Sam with cold intensity, and Sam screamed at the sheer baffling pain of being hollowed out and picked through, thoughts ripped open to the stinging air, ransacked, an insect dissected, each struggling desperate bloody part pinned out and scraped at by a huge creature with cold claws. 

After a long minute or so the sensation blessedly slackened. Sam gasped in Lucifer’s grip. He felt tears drying on his cheeks.

“ _Gadreel_.” The word was half a hiss, half a sigh. "Ironic, really. I owe him quite a lot. He was tortured for it, of course, for thegreat crimeof trusting someone close to him. Heaven’s justice. Honestly, you two have a lot in common. Could have some interesting conversations.”

Even Cas had been able to sense Gadreel, with enough effort. Really, it was more surprising that Lucifer was only now seeing it. Maybe Cas had removed just enough grace, or maybe the distraction of Sam’s return had been enough to keep his attention elsewhere for awhile. 

Not for long enough. Lucifer twisted his grip, and Sam screamed. “And a demon, too. Quite the village bicycle, aren’t you, Sam! Two at once? Kinky.” Sam shuddered at the lazy disgust in his tone. "You know, debt or not, I’ll kill Gadreel. He's got his grubby little paw-prints all over your soul. Faint, sure, but disgusting. Take me forever to get those dry-cleaned out." 

He suddenly yanked his hand from Sam’s chest, and Sam slumped gratefully in his chains. He stared at the Cage ceiling and willed back the tears of pain and humiliation. 

Lucifer slapped him lightly on the cheek, and Sam refocused on him. "Sam, Sam, don’t hold out on me. Go ahead and cry, I promise I won’t mind. Kind of the point of this whole exercise, y’know?"

Sam glared at him, grateful for what dregs of anger he could muster. 

Lucifer _hmm_ ’ed, mocking. “Or maybe you think you're dealing. Is this what dealing looks like? Tell me, Sam, how’s your home life these days? Is _Dean_ worried about you? I think _mayyy_ -be he's not. I could feel it, you know, I felt that he was the one who gave you to Gadreel and Crowley. Handed you over. Rented you out like a cheap whore.” He watched Sam slyly, waiting for a reaction.

Sam dropped his gaze, feeling sick, anger spent. 

Lucifer laughed. "Gotta be hard, knowing I’m more reliable than big brother. At least I told you the terms up front, even if you didn’t like them much."

He forced his hand back in, curling his fingers deep below Sam’s ribs. Sam didn’t scream this time, just seized up and shut his eyes and managed a rough gasping keen as the horrible pain lanced though him. He felt scraped raw. 

 

 

Time passed.

Sam drifted in a nauseating haze of agony. Lucifer's cheek was pressed against his, and Lucifer's hands were on him—one was in his soul, and one gently rubbed his back in a parody of comfort, and he didn’t know which he hated more.  

 

  

All the while, Lucifer’s voice hummed steady and soft in his ear.

"I can feel you so much better, like this. The connection is stronger. You can feel it, too, can’t you? Every time I touch you like this, every time you scream, it brings us a little closer together. It brings me a little closer to you.

“Wanna hear your fortune? It’s on the house. At this rate, it’ll take another three decades, for me, until the walls come tumbling down. Another three months for you. Another thirty visits, before we’re done here.

"You're looking forward to that, aren’t you? No, no, shh-sh, don’t pretend you aren’t. You’re looking forward to me bustin' down the joint. A part of you wants nothing more than to have me walking God’s green earth. All those juicy distractions. Who cares what I’ll do, which nameless innocents will get burnt? Not you. Humans die every day. You’re just hoping—selfishly—that I’ll have less time to spend with you, bunkmate. 

“But don’t worry about that, Sam. You know you’ll always be my best girl. Or maybe my lapdog. What do you think? Would a leash and collar be too on the nose?

“This would all be easier, wouldn’t it, if you just stayed here, with me. You could just fall back into old habits without being embarrassed. I know, it’s so hard to pretend for your brother. To go back and forth, to tell Dean you’re _fine_ , you’re not broken, when he’s betrayed you so thoroughly. You’re not fine, Sam. You never were. But I love you just the way you are. You don’t have to pretend, not with me. No use, no reason. I know every inch of your soul." 

 

* * *

 

When the time finally ran out, Sam collapsed on the floor of the bunker dungeon and couldn’t bring himself to be ashamed of the way he was sobbing. 


	9. Soul Food

Day 6: Dean

Dean sat in the library, trying to get through the latest dead-end encyclopedia and not stare at Sam. He wasn’t doing too hot with either.  

Right now, Sam’s lips were moving silently, his hair flipping half over his face as he frowned in concentration. One long finger traced a row of runes, while the other hand took notes on a yellow legal pad in a loose, legible scrawl. No signs of stress or pain or even a hint of fucking _nervousness_. 

Eight hours ago, Sam had been curled up on the dungeon floor and crying. Not just crying, full-on face-scrunched ugly sobbing like someone had died. 

There hadn’t been a mark on him. 

Dean hadn't asked. It wasn’t like talking would _help_ , not like it would—would lance a wound or whatever, because the wound wasn’t done. It wasn’t at the festering stage, it was still happening. Not like Sam would give details anyway. Sue him, but Dean just wasn’t up to a conversation where Sam would say he was fine and they’d both pretend to believe him. And, yeah, okay, he definitely wasn’t up to one where Sam would for once _describe_ whatever horrific thing had happened this time. Call him a coward, because he was one. 

Sam had brushed Dean off and staggered to bed. It had been a few days since Sam'd managed any sleep, so that was good. 

Dean had puttered a bit—stashed the new fancy ice packs back in the freezer (Sam had seemed to like those), made some vegetable soup (nothing burnt, nothing meaty, nothing slimy), put up some of the used stacks of books. Usually Sam did that, because he was digitizing and cataloguing and whatever nerdy shit, but lately the library was a mess. If Sam wanted to yell at Dean for screwing up his system, fine, more power to him. 

Sam had emerged with wet hair, grabbed coffee, grabbed a book, and sat down to work without a word. He hadn’t noticed the missing books, or, at least, hadn’t mentioned it. He'd accepted a glass of water and a mug of reheated soup (from the stove, not the microwave, because Dean had standards, okay) with a stiffly polite little smile-nod-“thanks-Dean" combo. At least they were on speaking terms. 

By now, Sam's mug sat cold and forgotten by his elbow, but he'd managed to drink about half. A little less than half. _Not actively starving himself_ , wow, what a win, just slap on a picture of a cat and it’d make a great poster. Hang that on a classroom wall, kiddos. 

Reading this fucking dictionary or whatever wasn’t gonna help. Maybe killing something would help. Time for a new tack—Dean opened the laptop to browse one of Sam’s obsessively organized crime filters.

 

If he still couldn’t find something connected to Abaddon, well, whatever, they still both needed a break. Sam hadn’t left the Bunker in a week, and Dean had only gone out once, to stock up on groceries and medical supplies. (He knew a thing or two about downstairs; whatever shit Lucifer did wasn’t gonna clear up with a goddamn bandaid. Even if Sam came back mostly healed—or totally healed, at the moment—it was as temporary as any other time Hell remade you.)

He clicked to another article. First-grade teacher mulched her husband into Hamburger Helper? “Huh.” 

Sam jerked and looked up from his notepad. “Something?"

Yeah, Sam was way too damn twitchy. He definitely needed a distraction. “Maybe. There’s a possession case, looks like. Demons, could have an Abaddon connection.”

Sam’s forehead creased. “Abaddon?”

“You got better ideas, I am all ears. I am ears inside other ears. But right now, we’ve got bupkis. She’s our only lead.”

“Yeah, but, just a random possession? What are the odds Abaddon’s actually involved?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s one of her goons. Crowley runs a pretty tight ship, could be she does the same.” Sam was still frowning. Dean sighed. “Sam, look, you need some fresh air, and an actual win.”

Sam breathed out a sharp huff of a laugh, lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “A win? Sure.” 

“Unless you actually think we’re gonna magically trip into a solution down here, being cooped up underground won’t help until we get _something_ to go on.”

Sam dropped his pen with a clatter, then scrubbed a giant hand over his face. “Okay. Okay, actually, yeah. It would be good to—to be busy.” He swallowed, then forced a grin. “Where to?”

Dean matched his fake smile and turned the laptop to show Sam the article. “Come to sunny Milton, Illinois.”

 

* * *

 

Doing 90 down Route 36, tires rumbling and headlights cutting through the twilight, Dean could breathe again. Even his arm didn’t burn so much, in the cool night air. He glanced sideways. Sam stared out the Impala's passenger window, ignoring the half-finished book in his lap. Every so often, Dean caught him nodding off, then twitching upright. A still-sealed protein bar sat forgotten on the seat next to him. 

It almost felt like the Trials again. Sam running himself into the ground, Sam's eyes earnest and sunken into his face with sickness, _hopeless_ and _driven_ both draped around him like blankets, both tied around his neck like millstones. Dean sitting and watching helplessly while Hell took his brother away. 

The miracle of Sam healed, seeing Sam fine, actually honestly fine, feeling good, not just saying it: that had been something too good to last and Dean should have fucking known it. The relief of seeing a glimpse of his little brother back, the brother he'd used to know, before all the hell and the Hell that was their lives, who had hope and faith and life and trusted Dean, had blinded him. Of course it had been a lie. Something that maybe hadn't even been real at the time. How much of that had been Sam, and how much Gadreel? 

How long since Sam had really been Sam, anyway? How long since he'd _really_ been the brother Dean sold his soul for, the one who would kill and die for Dean in return? Before Ruby, before the fucking dog, before Lucifer, and Sam turning into a hollowed-out shell. Now Sam thought Dean was toxic baggage, had said it out loud, _I wouldn't do the same_.  

What the hell was Sam sticking around for, then? Dean fought down a rush of resentment. Because, okay, Sam was going through some serious shit. Of course Sam was still Sam. And this whole debacle was on Dean. Sam was just being stubborn as always, but he understood, he hadn’t meant it, he'd get over it. 

_Yeah, Dean, you’re real magnanimous, soul of generosity, when it’s your fault he’s not safe in Heaven._ Whatever. Dean wasn’t about to apologize for saving Sam’s life. He’d done it before, he’d do it again. 

And wasn’t that just the problem? His stupid pathological inability to just say sorry, to stick out his neck and show his yellow belly and tell Sam that he’d been, horror of horrors, wrong about something _._  Dean couldn’t, nope, just couldn’t, was too much of a chickenshit coward, because as soon as Sam finally figured out just how pathetic and twisted up and downright  _evil_  Dean was, that’s when he was gonna run for the hills. He  _should_  run for the hills. If Dean actually loved Sam, actually cared about him, he’d say “Sorry, Sam, I fucked up, you’re free to go,” and he’d pack Sam’s bags himself. 

Dean put the goddamn Mark of Fratricide on his own goddamn arm. How much more on the nose did he have to _get_ before Sam realized that Dean's the common thread in all his misery, Dean's what he should really be afraid of.

 

* * *

 

Day 7: Dean

Sam was doing okay today. He’d slept and he’d eaten and he’d put on his best sympathetic face to coax a sob-story out of Julia Wilkinson, recovering nun. Turned out Julia had one hell of a tale, involving Josie Sands, Henry Winchester, and Abaddon way back in the fifties. 

And now, while Sam checked upstairs, Dean stood in a dingy basement room in the Convent of St. Bonaventure, staring at a shelf of stolen human souls.

The souls were—well, beautiful, Dean had no other word for it. Glowy white-blue balls, sure, but even at a single glance you could tell there was more. Just, more. The energy. Dean tasted ozone and remembered Cas, drunk on power, thought about Death's briefcase in Bobby's panic room, the sheer force and light of Sam's soul fresh from Hell.  

To see them trapped in glass jars was abhorrent, fundamentally wrong, like watching a hummingbird break its wings to bloody splinters against the bars of a cage. Filled with wonder and horror, Dean reached out to touch one. 

Someone crashed into Dean from behind, tackling him into the wall with supernatural strength and grabbing for his knife. Dean broke the hold and stabbed his demon in the gut, twisted the knife until red sparks flashed behind its eyes. 

Then Sister Agnes, suddenly in the doorway, flicked out a hand, and Dean flew backwards into a pile of boxes. "Ah-ah-ah. Souls are a very precious and fragile thing, Dean Winchester. Break one of those, and them little buggers fly right back home. We can't have that, now can we?"

"Still doing Abaddon's bitch work, huh, Agnes?" gasped Dean. Keep her talking, ‘till Sam could get here, any moment now. 

Agnes rolled her eyes. “At least I’m not doing Crowley’s. Unlike you.” 

"Why is Abaddon stealing souls?” Dean ground out. Agnes was made of sterner stuff than Demon Mook Number 327; the words squeezed out past what felt like eight sandbags crushing his lungs. 

She smirked. What was it with these demon skanks and the smirking? “Did you think she was just going to sit back until our Lord returns? No, she's building him an army!"

“She's turning souls into demons?” Could you even _do_ that? He’d thought that was a Hell-tour-only kinda deal. 

Agnes laughed, exultant, and spread her arms wide. "An entire host! Loyal only to our lord! I'd recruit you and your brother as well, but the General says you're off the menu. Still, I can't let you free these— _ghhk_!”

The tip of an angel blade sprouted through her open mouth. Orange power lit her up from the inside, and the force pinning Dean abruptly withered. 

“Nice assist, Sam,” Dean panted, massaging his aching chest. 

Castiel yanked the blade back and stepped past her body as it fell. “Not Sam. But you’re welcome.“

Dean blinked and levered himself upright. "Cas! Man, where have you been? How did you find us?"

"I was in the area," Cas said. He glanced down at the demon he’d killed and grimaced in distaste. "Following a lead on Abaddon. She's stealing souls."

“We'd noticed.” Dean jerked his head at the glowing shelf. “So do I just pop the lids or what?"

“No,” said Cas firmly. "I will take care of them.” He pushed past Dean to carefully lift one of the shining bottles. He pulled out a tote bag fromsomewhere—since when did Cas carry around a _tote bag_?—and gently laid the jar inside. He reached for the next soul-in-a-can. 

The bag was printed with dozens of tiny cartoon owls, some hideous thrift store reject. It was a goddamn eyesore. 

It was a _suspicious_ eyesore. “You gonna bring them back to their owners?”

Cas didn’t turn around. “Yes.”

Dean nodded. Uh-huh. “See, because the late Agnes there sure seemed to think breaking the jars would work just fine.”

Cas hesitated, a little too long. “It wouldn’t work.”

Dean made a grab for the stupid owl purse. “We’ve been down this road before, Cas! You gonna explain what you’re doing, or should I just assume you’ve gone full-on god complex?”

Cas yanked the bag back. “This is not like before!” 

“So I’m right. You’re stealing souls? _Stolen_ souls?” The fucking month of deja-vu. First a Lucifer rerun, now Cas on a power-trip? Dean couldn’t believe it, except that he could, because the universe fucking hated him. 

"Dean. Metatron has a spell—"

Dean laughed, harsh and angry, “Metatron? You’re pimping souls to _Metatron_? I don’t care if he's got a spell to make me emperor of Shangri-fucking-La— “

“— _Let me finish_. He has a spell to break the connection between an angel and its vessel." 

“I—what?” Dean’s fury blew out of him. Guess there was a spell he cared about after all.  

"Yes. _What,_ ” spat Cas. He went right back to stuffing souls into his man purse. 

“How do you know?"

"He's given me half of the ritual. All I need is the list of ingredients. I've read it, it's strong. It should—it will work."

Dean shook his head. “Meta-douche is also a lying liar, who lies! Maybe you forgot, but the last time he gave you a spell, he stole your grace and kicked all the angels out of heaven.”

Cas glanced at the door, where Sam could come downstairs at any moment, and blew out a furious breath through his teeth. “Exactly. He wants Heaven. He doesn't want Lucifer back any more than we do! Why would he lie about this?"

"Oh, I don't know, to get you to steal souls for him?"

Cas’s eyes narrowed. "And how, exactly, are you helping Sam?" He grabbed Dean's wrist, viper-quick, and yanked up his sleeve to reveal the livid Mark. "With the Curse of Cain. I see. You're right, Dean, I'm sure the _original weapon of fratricide_ will help your brother."

Dean wrenched his arm back and fixed his jacket. "Yeah, it will, when I'm twisting the First Blade into Abaddon's entrails until she talks!"

" _Damn_ it, Dean."

“Don't give me that. You're doing something just as fucked up."

Cas held his glare, then his face twisted. He looked away and sighed. "I know."

"These souls? They're people, not angelic Red Bulls."

"I _know_."

"But. It's Sam."

Cas’s head jerked back up. His mouth was a grim line. "Yes. It's Sam." 

Dean let out his breath, slowly. "You actually think it's gonna work, don't you."

Cas’s face went blank and dark, and for a second Dean remembered—lightning flash of black wings in a blown-out barn, an utterly inhuman power silhouetted in the night. “I can end this curse. Sam will be free of Lucifer, utterly. And when he is safe and the Cage is sealed, we will kill Metatron and free these souls."


	10. Roadside Assistance

Day 7: Dean

If Sam had been mopey on the drive up, as they drove back to Kansas he was positively _brooding_. Dean wasn’t sure how, but his too-big shoulders were hunched in a thin, tense line that made him seem almost small. 

He still hadn’t touched the damn protein bar. 

Dean itched at his arm and tried the radio, again, but there was still nothing but static. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, restless. He couldn’t decide what was causing the knot in his stomach. He should be relieved. They had a lead, fucking finally, and if it wasn’t the most morally pure solution in the world? Newsflash, welcome to their entire lives. Can’t make an omelette, _et cetera._

He pictured, again, the souls fluttering like panicked butterflies against the enchanted glass, before they were swallowed up by Cas’s hideous owl man-bag. Forget Metatron, that purse was gonna scar those souls for life. Or death, or Limbo, or whatever, and Dean was trying _not_ to think about whatever fate he was consigning them to and this wasn’t helping. Look, at least they wouldn’t be demons. Already a step up, so, you’re welcome, glow-balls. 

It still wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever done. Especially because it was undo-able, as soon as Cas got the rest of the ritual. He’d been pretty damn clear on that point. (And if they didn’t end up fine? Well, they wouldn’t be in Hell, or in Lucifer’s goddamn Cage, so they had no room to whine, in Dean's book.) 

Whatever. Dean would be in a great mood once the ritual came through. So would Sam. He could stop with the dramatic broody shoulders and the not-sleeping and not-eating and the twitching at everything. 

Other than the Lucifer problem, though, was the new discovery that Abaddon was even more of a threat than they’d feared. Demon factories in _jars_? Dean could not fucking wait to stab her in the gut with the First Blade. Just as soon as they figured out where she was. God, if only Crowley had brought the jawbone along last week. Dean could have ended it all then and there. 

A muscle in Sam’s arm twitched, wound too tight, but his eyes stayed fixed on the darkening plains outside the window. 

He wondered what Sam was angsting about, besides the usual. Maybe those souls trapped in glass to be tormented and twisted into some demonic weapon. Or the whole soulless thing. It had hit Dean a little close to home, the dawning realization that all those people were _empty_ inside. He remembered the way Terminator Sam had watched him with cool, calculating eyes like he was some insect, some weird science experiment to pick apart. Sam still had those memories. Probably that was what was bothering him, on top of the other shit. 

The Impala thudded over a lump in the highway. The protein bar rustled in its metallic wrapper, and Dean was sick of the silence. “Sam, eat your damn granola. It’s gonna grow mold.”

“Not granola,” Sam said, but he reached for the bar. He picked it up, weighing it in his hand, but he didn’t unwrap it. Abruptly, he set it down and turned to Dean. “Are you gonna tell me why Cas left so quickly, at the convent?”

Caught off guard, Dean missed a beat. “I—What? He's Cas. Dude's weird. That’s his thing.” 

Sam’s face was strained and gray and hawk-sharp in the fading light. “What did he tell you, after you released the souls?”

“He didn’t—”

Sam cut him off. “I asked him what was up. He said you’d tell me.”

Awesome. Thanks for pawning that one off, Cas. Honestly, what the fuck was it with Cas and selectively sucking at bluffing? Sometimes he could lie like a rug, and sometimes his bullshit was literally transparent. 

Dean looked at Sam’s pale, pinched face. _Well, Sam, here's the low-down, Cas is soul-napping a bunch of innocent people to save you from the Devil, that cool_? Yeah, that’d go over swell. Sam would never accept it. He'd refuse their help, he'd fight tooth and nail to free those souls, even though they were probably gonna end up fine anyway. 

Dean could come clean. Right here, right now. Show Sam that he learned from his mistakes. Except he hadn't, not really. Better not to give Sam false expectations. “He said it’s stuff for that full moon spell you talked about. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t wanna let you down in case it didn’t work, that’s all.” 

Sam stared at him for a second. Dean tried to think honest thoughts. 

Sam hunched over, shuddering and grinding his knuckles into his forehead, so sudden and violent that Dean jolted and very nearly went for a gun. “Pull over.”

Alarmed, Dean reached for him, grabbed his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Sam jerked away, shook his head, then kept shaking. “ _Pull over.”_

Dean yanked the steering wheel and skidded to a halt on the shoulder. Sam was fumbling for the door handle before the car stopped moving; he pushed his way into the evening air, took a few steps, then went to his knees in the grass, panting like he was doing Lamaze. 

Dean snatched a water bottle and followed. “Sam? You okay?”

Sam ignored him. The car doors hung open, the headlights spilled yellow light over the dusty pavement. Dean listened to the _tick-tick-tick_ rattle of the cooling engine, the buzzing chirp of crickets, the thick rustle of wind through the grass, his brother’s sick, heaving gasps. 

After a moment, he tapped Sam’s shoulder with the bottle. “Water?” 

Sam fliched away violently, spun and stood up so quickly Dean thought he might fall over. “God, Dean, don’t. I can’t handle it, I can’t handle this.”

Dean swallowed, hard. He couldn’t handle this either, the lies, but he had to. For Sam, he had to. “I don’t know what—”

“Don’t, don’t,” Sam panted. “ _Don’t_ lie to me. Not again. Not _now_.”

“I’m not lying,” said Dean weakly, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true, and the knot in his stomach twisted. 

Sam straightened and looked Dean full in the face, skin blotchy, mouth pulled into a horrible expression.“Cas told me the full moon spell was a dead end two days ago, Dean.”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it. No point in further denial. “Oh.” 

“ _Oh_? Is that it? You’re not gonna tell me I was imagining it?” Sam’s eyes were red and wild.

Dean shook his head. “I—you weren’t imagining it,” he said, a little hoarsely. He’d done it again, hurt Sam, except right now, staring at the places where Sam had wiped away tears, it was harder to remember why he’d done it. _To save him_. _You did it to save him_. 

Sam nodded and pushed hair back from his face. “Who do I trust? You, or my own memories? Because who knows if those are right, I’ve had Gadreel and Crowley and Lucifer _rearranging the furniture_.” Dean reached out a tentative hand and Sam flinched back, slapped his fingers away like there was nothing worse than Dean’s comfort. “ _Don’t_ touch me.”

Dean pulled back, stung, suddenly babbling, stumbling on the words. “I’m—look, Sam, I’m so s—it’s just. It’s a plan, it’s a good plan, I swear, but. You’re not gonna like it.” 

Sam flung an arm out wide against the backdrop of the twilight sky, a desperate gesture. “You think I like any of this? _Tell me_.”

Dean took a deep breath. Time to face the fucking music, time to come clean. Then Sam would storm out and they wouldn’t be able to help him. He’d go from some no-tell motel in Illinois straight down to Hell, while Dean and Cas meditated on their shitty life choices and drank through a liquor store. “Cas took the souls to trade to Metatron for a spell to cut the link between you and Lucifer.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “… _what_?”

Dean cut across him, aware that he was still blustering, “I know, believe me, believe me, Sam, I know, but if there’s a chance, if there’s any chance at all, we have to take it.”

Sam’s voice went thin and incredulous. “Believe—you’re letting—you and Cas are just handing over innocent people, souls, to _Metatron_? To do what?”

“They’re gonna be fine! Not like we’re turning them into demons, not like we’re sending them downstairs!”

“There’s plenty of things an angel could do to those souls, just as bad,” hissed Sam. 

A helpless spark of fury about _that_ hit the tinder-dry rage that lingered so near the surface, all the time, his second skin that the Mark kept soaked in kerosene.  Dean threw the bottle down so hard it burst in a spray of tepid water, and spat, “Maybe you wouldn’t do the same, or whatever, but if you think I’m gonna sit here and watch you go to Hell over and over, you’ve got another thing coming.” 

The moment froze. Sam stared at him, Dean stared back. He hadn’t meant to say it, to throw it back in Sam’s face like that, especially when Sam had a reason to be mad, but what the hell. Not like Dean didn’t have a thousand other reasons to hate himself, and those were just from today.

Dean didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for Sam to _laugh,_ choked and delirious. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”

“Pretty sure it was you who told me that.”

Sam laughed again, a miserable sound. “No, okay, you know what, I can’t deal with this right now. Dean, if you actually think I’d—I’d be fine with you g—just. No.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He pulled on a thin smile and took a deep breath. “Look, Sam, if you wanna be alone. You wanna take the car? I can get another ride.”

Sam made a noise like a sob. “God, Dean. You never learn. I _don’t_ want to be alone. That’s the problem.” He shook his head, snatched up the water bottle, and stormed back to the passenger seat. “We are driving back to the bunker, we’re calling Cas, and we’re getting those souls back.” The door slammed. 

Dean followed numbly.

* * *

 

 Day 7: Sam

Loud flapping rush of wind on the highway, vibrating hum of the engine, fuzzy pounding notes of a song on the radio, unidentifiable through the static. Sam stared out the window and let the white noise blur his ears. 

He’d lied earlier, sort of. He _did_ want to be alone. He wanted to be in a still dark quiet place alone in his head. He wanted to be sick and wretched and afraid and in pain, and  _alone_. Soft words, comforting touches—Sam knew not to trust anything soft that came when you were hurt, when you were low. 

Because, it wasn’t real. Or worse, it  _was_.

At that church, it’d been real. He’d been hurt, he’d been burning, he’d been dying, he’d felt the life leaving his body—not in some vague poetic sense, but in wrenching, burning pain. A familiar agony, that old gasping drain of his stupid reptile hindbrain scrabbling frantic claws against the panicky gut-deep knowledge of fatal injury, and Sam had accepted it. Then Dean’s hands had been on him, supplication, salvation, comfort, and Sam had accepted the comfort. That had been real. And afterward—in the vision, Gadreel had come to him as Dean. A vision, yes. But that had been real, too. Really Dean who gave permission; who’d asked for Sam’s trust, then given it to an angel. 

More lies, more reality shifting—what was true? A day ago, a year ago, today? All the fictional hunts Gadreel invented, all the illusions Lucifer crafted. All the dreamscapes, the strange dimensions, the spells and demons, and then Dean had the nerve to tell him not to worry, the adults would sort this one out, all Sam had to do was sit tight and go to Hell and not question whatever story he was spoon-fed. 

And then, then, the fucking melodrama. Dean-the-martyr. _Sure, Dean, give me the Impala. Weep and tear your beating heart out from your chest and present it to me on a silver platter, because apparently that’s easier than an apology_ , _or just not lying in the first place._

That wasn’t the point, right now. No, no, because right now, there were people hurt because of Sam Winchester, more deals made that couldn’t be unmade. There were innocent people suffering on Sam’s behalf, and the first fucking thing that Sam had felt, when Dean told him what Cas had done, what he had allowed, was a yank of hope that there might be a way out of this nightmare. Only afterwards came the disbelief, the crushing guilt, the fear, the betrayal. _How could Dean do this, again? And why hadn’t Cas told him?_

_S_ am couldn’t resist the hope, and he knew he couldn’t trust himself with it. It was a dogged, ragged thing. This wasn't new pain, and it wasn’t old pain, it was just the same, building to a peak that would never come. 

The worst part was, this time Sam couldn’t definitively say he would never have done the same. In a selfish way, this new lie paled in comparison to the thing Dean had already done. Dean wasn’t hurting _Sam_ at all this time. Somehow, that made it worse. _This is Dean_ , Sam thought. _This is Dean_. It’s a push and it’s a pull, a reflex to flinch away and to draw closer. Of course Sam didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his family. 

He felt a bit embarrassed, by his earlier outburst. It wasn’t as if Dean was the one who’d gone soul-hunting. Hell, Dean hadn’t actually done anything except duck the truth for a few hours. 

And Sam was fine, now. Except that he was drifting a little bit to the left of himself, into some vague other space, some liminal plane. Sam was fine, no hallucinations, he was real, he was here on Earth. He existed, just—a little bit to the left, that was all. Or a little bit outside: out the window into the middle distance, into the darkening sky; plum and twilight and burnt orange, red clouds and buzzing cicadas and endless Midwestern horizon. 

No more panic. Nothing at all. 

His eyes were drying out but he didn’t stop looking. His ears were plugged and stuffy, unpopped. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He probably was. Because, this was probably real. 

Of course, the filing cabinet in Sam’s head labeled “probably real” was long tipped over, all the drawers pulled out and the folders scattered in disorganized heaps. Sam wasn’t connected, that was the problem. He’d come loose. Lucifer could just reach out and pluck him up from where he drifted, untethered, a sad leaky balloon with a dangling string. He’d tie Sam down somewhere dark. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Dean quietly. 

Sam jerked his head away from the window and blinked. Dean wasn’t looking at him; his eyes were fixed on the blank, black road. 

“Me too,” said Sam. _We’re all sorry_ , _Dean_ , he thought. _It’s a sorry world._

 


	11. Consequentialism

Day 7: Sam

Three hours later, they were almost back to the bunker, and Cas still wasn’t picking up his phone. Sam thumped the phone down on the seat and rubbed at his temples. The gulf of sick, gnawing guilt was growing. 

“Look, Sam, you don’t gotta call every ten minutes.” 

Sam glanced over. Dean didn’t move his eyes from the dark road. His knuckles were white in the reflection from the headlights. 

Sam turned away and gritted his teeth. It felt good, having a bit of anger about something new. A refreshing little flame, a pilot light. It hadn’t soured in his mouth or turned to ash, yet. He could probably get a few more hours of mileage out of it. 

The wheel creaked as Dean shifted his grip. “Hey. Earth to Sam. You know he’s probably already in Heaven making the trade.”

Sam let himself scoff. “Or he’s hurt. Or dead.”

“Or he’s getting the spell right now,” countered Dean mulishly, “and we can gank Metatron and get the souls back.” 

Where was this newfound optimism coming from? Nowhere. No way Dean was buying his own bullshit. Sam didn’t bother looking at him. “Or Metatron kills or tortures or, hey, who knows, _eats_ the souls, and we never get them back.” 

Dean was quiet for a long minute, before he spoke again. “And what if there’s no other way?”

It was too dark to see anything outside. Sam stared out into the vast blackness anyway. Like staring out through the bars into familiar nothingness. “There’s another way,” he heard his voice say. “Haven’t we always found another way?”

The Impala jerked, just a little, as Dean accelerated. “There’s a price for _another way_ , and it’s too high,” he said. He sounded pretty mad; that was just baseline Dean nowadays, but underneath that was something deeper. Exhaustion, maybe. Pulling Sam’s bacon out of the fire over and over, maybe. This neverending sideshow of misery, maybe. Or maybe Sam was being dramatic. “Sam, every day we sit with our thumbs up our asses, you’re paying for it!”

Okay, never mind. Sam definitely wasn’t being the dramatic one. He pulled his eyes away from the window and stared at his brother. The hot little flare of anger pulsed again; he dragged his lips back into an expression he couldn’t name, something vicious. “Then I’ll pay for it. You don’t get to decide what price is _too high_ for me, Dean, and you definitely don’t get to pay my bills with human souls.”

Dean looked like he was gathering a retort, so Sam picked up his phone and dialed Cas again, prepared to leave yet another pointless message. 

“I just want you to be okay,” said Dean. 

Unexpectedly, the line clicked open. 

Sam’s heart leapt. “Cas! Thank God. Cas, listen, we need to talk, don’t take those souls to Metatron, okay?” 

Instead of Cas’s gravelly tones, a smug, weaselly voice said, “Oh, I’d say it’s a liiiittle too late for that, Sam.”

Sam froze. “Metatron. What have you done with Cas. ”

Dean’s head whipped around. For the second time that night, he jerked the Impala to the side of the road in a squealing spray of gravel. Sam clicked the phone to speaker. 

“Easy there, tiger!” said Metatron cheerfully. “Your boy toy is fine. I only want to talk. No tricks, just treats. I’ll text you the coordinates. Meet me at, say, nine in the morning?”

“How can we trust you?” said Sam. 

A dramatic nasally sigh came through the speakers. “Oh, puh-lease. If I wanted you two dead, I could have had Gadreel do it weeks ago.”

Ice gripped Sam. He couldn’t reply. 

Dean snatched the phone from his nerveless fingers and said, “Fine, asshole, nine AM. If Cas is hurt, you won’t like what we’ll do to you.”

“Oooh, very threatening, I’m trembling, how very—” Dean hung up and tossed the cell back on the seat. 

_Gadreel. Cas._ Sam’s eyes found Dean’s. His face looked pale. They sat still and quiet for a long moment, then Sam picked up the phone, _One New Message_ , and Dean restarted the engine. 

 

* * *

 

 Day 8: Sam

They arrived at a hotel parking lot in Odgen, Utah just before nine, running mostly on coffee. Sam had driven the final leg, but he doubted Dean had managed any sleep. For his part, every time Sam had tried to shut his eyes, he was back in the library looking out at Kevin though someone else’s eyes. (It wasn’t an improvement over the other nightmares, though he supposed he could appreciate the variety.)

“Is he gonna show, or what,” grumbled Dean. He fiddled impatiently with the lighter in his pocket. 

On cue, Metatron popped into existence, wearing a tweed jacket and a smarmy smirk. “Of course I'm gonna show. I was just waiting for you two to finished setting up your little trap for me.” He stepped forward and posed dramatically. “Am I hitting my mark? Well, go on, try it. I'm waiting.” 

Dean glanced at Sam, but he clicked the lighter and tossed it onto the prepared ring of oil. A circle of flame leapt up, yellow and white and unearthly hot.  Metatron cringed back, gasping in exaggerated horror and clutching at his chest. 

Then he slapped his leg and laughed. “Either of you bring s'mores? Holy fire always gives them a delightful minty aftertaste. Make a wish.” 

He flicked his wrist, forcing Sam and Dean back against the Impala, then leaned forward and—and _blew out_ the flames like birthday candles. 

Sam’s stomach dropped. Even archangels couldn’t do that. “Where’s Cas?” he gritted out, trying not to struggle too hard against the bruising grace pinning him down. 

Metatron shook his head. “All this rudeness! Boys, boys, I honestly am just here to talk. Look, here’s your darling Castiel, happy?” He clicked his fingers. 

Cas materialized a few feet away, looking rumpled and angry, but none the worse for wear. He took a stride forward, but stopped as if hitting an invisible wall. “Sam, Dean. Are you alright?”

“We’re fine, Cas,” Sam managed. 

“You wanted to talk, douchebag? Let’s talk,” gasped Dean. “We’re on a schedule.”

Metatron clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Oooh, yes, so I’ve heard. Quite the pickle you’re in! My condolences. That’s actually why I set up this coffee date.” 

“Metatron, release them. You promised me the spell,” growled Cas. His blade dropped into his hand. 

“Where are my manners.” Metatron snapped his fingers, Sam blinked but didn’t flinch, and the horrible squeezing force slackened and vanished. “I am, of course, an entity of my word.” He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper, typewritten, which he handed to Cas with a crinkling flourish. “Careful with the ink, it smudges.” 

Sam heaved a few deep breaths, rubbing his chest. Why did everything pin him against stuff. 

Dean snapped, “What do you want?”

“Dean-o, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want.” Metatron tilted his head at the page Cas was holding gingerly. “Let’s call _that_ a level one spell. Magic missile, if you will. It’ll protect you, Sam, but I can do you better. I can give you stuff straight from the mouth of capital G-O-D. There’s just one eensy-weensy thing I need.”

Sam shook his head, tasting bile. “Let me guess,” he said. “Souls.”

Metatron shrugged innocently. “What can I say? Earth has ‘em, I—well, Heaven needs ‘em. I’m, uh, not on great terms with the Reapers at the moment. Something about the Veil.”

Sam snorted, incredulous. “Right. And I’m sure you have nothing but the best intentions.”

Metatron had the gall to look offended. “Jeez, it’s not like I’m gonna _do_ anything to them! Just what kind of Lord do you think I _am_? You’d be giving them to _Heaven_ , AKA, paradise, AKA, me! So I’m siphoning off a little juice on the side. It’s what Heaven’s always done, basically. Would you prefer them to be trapped in the Veil, or tortured by Abaddon’s minions?”

“So, what, we give you souls, you give us mojo to keep the Cage on lockdown?” said Dean. Sam glared at him. Dean ignored him, face intent and poker-blank. 

Metatron’s doughy face split into a weaselly, snaggletoothed grin. “Call it a customer rewards program. And I’ll need the allegiance of the angels, too, that’s where Cas’s famed people skills come in.”

Cas shook his head, mouth pursed in disgust. “The angels won’t follow you,” he said. 

Metatron wagged a finger. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong! This new state of affairs has got all the fine feathered folk in a tizzy. Angels really are such sheep. They’re _jonesing_ for the chance to be mindless drones again.” He sniffed. “You’ve heard the talk, Cas, all Lucifer-this and Michael-that. But, ugh, who wants reruns? Bo-ring!”

“You’re right. It’s so tedious, that’s our chief complaint,” said Dean acidly. 

“Right? You get it! What the people really want is a fresh new hero.” Metatron paused, beaming toothily, eyes shining. 

He looked for all the world like an overgrown ferret. The three of them stared at him in frank disbelief. 

After a beat, he huffed in exasperation. “Guys, c’mon!” He gestured at himself. “ _Voila, c’est moi_!”

Sam was too revolted to roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. “So, what, you want to take down Lucifer? Be our guest.” 

Metatron flapped his hands in denial. “Oh, no no no. The angel tablet’s given me some new tricks, but I’m no archangel. Going toe-to-toe with Lucifer? _Pffft_. No thank you. Sure, everybody loves an underdog, but nobody wants to _be_ an underdog, you get me?”

“Whatever you say, Shoeshine,” said Dean. 

“But if you don’t want to help me out, and Lucifer pops his prison?” Metatron licked his lips and shrugged. “No problem. Not my first choice, a bit more risky, but I’ll have the strength of Heaven behind me, and he’s still locked out. If the Adversary’s back, see, that makes me God. As long as it’s not one on one I’m sure I can manage it. I was actually all set to convince Cassie here to lead the rebellion, be the yin to my yang, but honestly Lucifer’s got way more press. Nothing personal.”

Sam was trembling. Was this rage? He breathed, and breathed again. Well, it did make a nice story. He could see that. “Poetic,” he said. 

Metatron nodded happily. “So, what do you say? Cas seemed, well, _reluctant_ , so I thought I’d approach you two personally.”

This pathetic little rat. There was an unraveling rip in his brown sweater, just over the breast pocket. In his mind, Sam’s hand grasped Kevin’s skull. For Metatron’s story. He found he didn’t have words. 

“What does the next spell do,” said Dean. 

“No,” said Sam quietly. 

Metatron turned to Sam’s left, to where Sam’s brother was white-knuckling an angel blade and considering selling souls to keep him on Earth. “Yes! I’ve read the Gospels Winchester. You’d do anything to protect your brother, right, Dean? Gonna make the sacrifice play, one more time, hmm?”

Of course he turned to Dean. Of course, of course, he’d read the books, everyone knew, you talked to the man who called the plays. You wanted something done, you talked to Dean. 

“No,” said Sam, again, louder. Not this, not this. 

“Sam, shut up,” growled Dean. 

There was an _or else_ there, maybe, and maybe Sam was tired of threats, or maybe he was tired of being cast as the unreasonable one. 

Or maybe he was hopped up on the triumph of his own bleak destruction, or something equally masochistic and maudlin, the romantic _call of the abyss_ or whatever. Sam knew too much about pain without purpose, but he wasn’t sure he knew the difference, anymore, between martyrdom and just plain life. 

“No,” he said anyway, a third time. “We don’t have any souls, we’re not finding any souls, we’re not giving you jack shit, and when we see you or Gadreel again, I’m going to drive an angel blade through both your hearts.”

“Wait, Sam, wait—”

Sam ignored Dean’s desperate look and barked out a laugh. “And if he does get out? Lucifer’s gonna rip you to pieces.”

Metatron wasn’t smiling anymore. “If that’s how it is, then. Fine. I’ll enjoy watching you squirm out of this mess.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back. His spittle-slick lips pursed, like fat sausages. “It’s gonna be one hell of a show.” 


	12. Friends in High Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everybody who's asked about this fic! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this one. In my defense, the last three episodes of season 13 kidnapped me and held me at gunpoint and forced me to write ~15k words, so. Definitely not my fault. Blame 13.21.
> 
> Next chapter is almost finished, expect it next week.

Day 8: Sam 

Metatron vanished with a smirk and a heavy flap of wings. 

Dean swore. “Get back here, you fucking dick! We weren’t done!”

Sam heaved in a breath and scrubbed his hands on his jeans. Felt the gasping high of deflating from the confrontation, let it wash through and over him, let it carry away the dregs of sick furious disgust and the image of Kevin’s burnt-out eyes. He shook his head. “We’re done, Dean.”

Dean whirled on him, and the pure murder in his snarl pushed Sam a step back. “This isn’t over. You heard him. _Level one_.” His hands tightened into fists.

Sam’s mouth went dry. “Dean,” he said weakly. 

Dean’s fists were white and tense, muscle jumping. He shut his eyes, clenched his jaw, turned and gripped the hood of the car, locked his arms. “Sam, just, shut up for a second,” he said. 

Dean kicked the Impala’s front tire, viciously. One, twice. Again. 

Sam watched silently. Swallowed the aftermath of adrenaline. Something twisting and heavy settled in its place. 

Cas’s boots crunched in the gravel. He offered Sam an uncertain, strained smile. “Are you okay?”

_You hid this from me_ , thought Sam. “Yeah,” said Sam. 

Dean stopped attacking the car. He scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing hard, shuddering all over, a deep shaky comedown. Not like Dean after a kill—more like Dean gearing up, and up and up, then having the rug yanked out from under his feet. 

“Cas, can I—?” Sam motioned at the paper. 

Handling the typewritten page as gingerly as a thousand-year-old manuscript, Cas passed it over.

Sam scanned through the spell. 

A ritual cleansing and purification, all straightforward. The incantation itself was Enochian: it was a disavowal, a command for the breaking of ties. Then some herbs, some materials. Some sigils, subject-specific. The blood of the vessel. And finally, something touched by the angel—that was a relief; Sam’s hair or something should work fine; he’d feared it might require grace or a feather or the like.

All in all, the spell looked simple. Deceptively so, hopefully. Either that, or Metatron was conning them, and this would fix nothing, or make everything worse. 

Still certainly worth a shot. Less than twenty-four hours left. 

The rarest ingredient was powdered bone of a dryad, to mix into the paint—that was probably a grounding influence, aspects of tethering and earth. Well, hopefully some nymph past had gotten on the wrong side of the Men of Letters. The labeling and organization in the archives was of variable quality; they should get back and start looking as soon as possible. Otherwise they’d have to go find a sufficiently evil oak tree to murder, and that would push the whole timetable back. 

“You think this will work?” Sam asked quietly. 

“It’s a formal sundering of the bond between an angel and a vessel who has consented in the past,” said Cas. “I’ve seen its effects before. It can be used to designate a vessel as off-limits, so to speak—”

“Why the hell would Heaven have a failsafe for that,” and Sam didn’t try to hide his bitter disbelief. 

“It’s not meant to protect a human from us,” said Cas. He sounded, suddenly, very distant. “Its purpose is to cut off the angel, so it can be recalled to Heaven.”

Sam glanced at him. It was sometimes easy to forget what Cas had been through, the wars and histories and the _conditioning_ of a soldier, for centuries, before Sam and Dean had even been born. Sam thought about Heaven and Naomi and Cas’s long, long life, and the obvious question. 

He didn’t ask it. The answer was too apparent. Business as usual.   

Dean straightened up, unknotting, mouth tight. The terrible rage was gone, dwindled back to the usual cloud of anger and blank unhappiness. “So, what’s the play. We can’t capture Metatron. How else are we gonna get the next spell from him?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. 

“Fuck, man, we’re a little short on options, here.” Dean’s pleading desperation shouldn’t have sparked a hint of grim satisfaction, but it did. 

Sam glanced back down at the paper. “This might work,” he said. 

Dean gripped his forearm, released it, knotted his fingers together, kneading his hands. “Or maybe it won’t work and it’ll just poke the bear! Have you considered that?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. That didn’t even deserve a response. Dean couldn’t sincerely expect threats to work. “You got a better idea?” 

Dean laughed, sharp. “Are you serious? We crawl back to Metatron, on our hands and knees, if we have to, and we get something that will actually do the job. None of this Salvation Army shit.”

“That’s not an option.”

Dean looked like he wanted to be grabbing Sam by the collar. “C’mon, Sam, just, think about this for two seconds. You’re not—you’d fucking martyr yourself to save a hamster.”

Sam snorted incredulously. “Souls aren’t hamsters, Dean. And this isn’t martyrdom, it’s literally _not sacrificing souls_. Kind of a no-brainer.”

“You gave up everything for them!”

“That was my choice!”

“You were _hardly_ given a choice,” growled Dean, and the shock hurt more than Sam expected, hearing him say that—a twist straight to a raw wound. 

“Then let me make a choice right now,” said Sam, coldly. “You know, seeing as last time apparently didn’t count.” 

For a moment, the cool, clear sense of righteous offense vibrated through his jaw like the echo of a struck bell. Sam was shaking slightly. After everything, Kevin and the confession at the third trial and everything, and Dean talked about choices like the world was supposed to be fair. 

Dean turned to Cas, exasperation mounting into a tight smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, etched weathered grooves. “Cas? Little help, here?”

The little flare of indignation stayed. Sam cut in, asked, “Cas, why didn’t you tell me, at the convent?” 

Cas paused. He glanced at Dean, then Sam, then looked down and away. “I’d hoped Dean would be able to soften the blow.”

Right. Soften the blow. Sam’s headache was too much for this. The heartache was just the same as usual. “Cut the bullshit. Neither of you wanted me to know.”

“It was a mistake to hide this. I was—” Cas broke off, abrupt and palpably uncomfortable. “You’re right, I was going to keep this from you entirely, at first. Both of you. But then I knew I couldn’t.” 

Dean grumbled, “Oh, right, you were sneaking around with your demon-owl man purse because you’re the soul of honesty—”

Cas steamrolled straight over him. “Sam. I’m sorry. Truly. If I were to do it all again—well, I can’t say I wouldn’t trade those souls. I’d do more than that, to save you. But I wouldn’t hide it.” 

A beat. Cas met Sam’s eyes unblinking, ramrod stiff and undeniably inhuman. Braced against Cas’s raw, honest reassurance, Sam’s chest felt gnawed open and empty. Like leaning back on the railing of a bridge and feeling the touch of grace sealing over nail wounds. Knowing who’d put them there, knowing why. 

“Cas,” started Dean, weakly. 

“Sam’s right, Dean,” said Cas. “This is his choice. We’re not going to deal with Metatron when Sam specifically does not want us to.”

Cas glanced at Sam, gave him a small, secret smile, and there was the same note of obscure, complacent pride that had been in his voice when he convinced Sam not to dig out the rest of Gadreel’s grace. When he’d said he also understood what it felt like, to fuck up over and over and try to fix it and know there was no real hope of salvation. 

Sam twitched his lips to approximate a smile back. 

“Awesome. Let’s ward off Satan with something from the fucking bargain bin,” muttered Dean.

 

* * *

 

 

Day 9: Sam

There was no real reason to wait in the dungeon anymore, not since they’d determined that all the warding down here was pointless. But Dean had already dragged down the cot and piles of medical supplies. Plus, it seemed thematic. It wasn’t like Sam would prefer to be plucked from the library, or his own bed. This way, it felt almost like it could be separate from the rest of his life—heading downstairs for a few hours, that was all. All the way downstairs. 

So they set up the ritual down here, under the four dusty lamps and the dangling chains. 

Chopping herbs, coughing on ancient bone dust, cross-referencing symbols—it all felt so normal, in a bizarre way. They were finally _doing_ something. Even if it failed and blew up in their faces, it was such a relief to be working on a direct solution instead of endlessly spinning their wheels. 

Luckily, there was an uncomfortably large selection of assorted bones in storage. Dean made the requisite jokes, Sam gave him exasperated looks. And if they were both trying too hard, well, that was normal too. 

Then Sam showered and sat in a fresh ring of spray paint. Cas wafted burning herbs and painted sigils on his chest with the thick, chalky-white bone paint. 

At thirty minutes to go, Sam gave the final incantation over a wooden bowl, dropping his blood and a lock of his hair into the sludgy mixture. It flashed white and vanished, along with the symbols on Sam’s skin. 

“Is that what we wanted?” asked Sam. 

“Yes,” said Cas. His eyes were intense and alien-bright in the dimness of the dungeon. 

Dean wordlessly passed him a button-up shirt. 

They’d find out soon enough. 

Waiting, again. 

Sam sat on the cold cement floor and wished he hadn’t insisted on having the clock down here. There were still twenty minutes to go. 

Cas watched him, frowning. Maybe he was looking at the spellwork. To an angel, Sam had to resemble a patchwork quilt. Or a darned sock. 

Sam tried focusing on the feel of fabric against his skin, sweatpants and loose shirt, but that just made him think about what was coming. In a way it didn’t matter what he thought about. It wasn’t like there was _more_ fear to dredge up. 

Dean paced like a trapped tiger. 

None of them spoke. 

And despite everything, Sam ached right down to his marrow with painful, miserable gratitude for Dean’s familiar presence, as he sat waiting, tasting iron, in this concrete hole in the ground. 

At 6:58 AM, Sam flinched as his chest began to glow, faded symbols flaring back to vibrant life. 

Dean shot forward, face pinched and anguished, barely restraining himself from breaking the spell circle. “Sam, does it hurt? Cas? Cas, is that a good sign?”

Sam shook his head, not quite able to manage words. 

Cas said, “Yes, I think—”

Sam didn’t hear what else he thought, because Cas, Dean, and the dungeon evaporated. 


	13. Hell Is Other People

Day 9: Sam

When Lucifer appeared standing over him, between one blink and the next, Sam didn’t scramble backwards. He let the sick shock of hopeless terror wash over him, a bucket of ice-water, and stayed where he was: kneeling, iron bars cold and bruising against his shins. 

“Hey, Sammy. Missed you.” 

Lucifer’s eyes glinted in the pale light. He smiled, broad and genuine, and uncoiled something from his wrist—a short length of silvery wire. 

A staticky rush of blank fear shuddered down Sam’s spine. He blinked. Twitched. Looked at the wire and didn’t move. 

“How’s your week going? Has Dean been weeping gently at your bedside, or are you two playing it cool?”

Okay, so, it hadn’t worked. Falling from hope, instead of resignation—well, that was always a longer trip. A harder landing. But there were tricks for that, too. Sam tried to swallow back the cold crush of misery. Pushed back thought, for however short that would last, pulled on the carefully built foundations of passive compliance. 

He was stone. 

Lucifer shook his head tolerantly. “Not in the mood for chit-chat? You’re right; we should make the most of our time together.”

He gestured; Sam flinched. 

“On your feet.”

Sam stood up. His left foot had fallen asleep while he’d been waiting; the toes tingled. He flexed them absently. 

“Want chains?” 

Sam considered, briefly, glancing between the wire and Lucifer’s smile. He shook his head. 

“Okie-dokie. I’m sure you remember the rules.”

Sam nodded. Took in an unsteady breath, closed his eyes, opened them again. 

Lucifer circled round slowly, studied Sam for a long, lazy moment, up and down, lingering, head to toe. The wire coiled and uncoiled between his fingers with a faint rustle, stretching and rolling, thin and metallic and flexible. 

Sam started shaking and couldn’t stop. He stared at the bars of the far wall, at the interlocking metal pattern he could draw blind and handcuffed. 

“Sorry to cut straight to business,” said Lucifer finally, from just behind his ear. “But we’re on the clock. Just let me know if you need help holding still, buddy.”

The click of his fingers echoed like the report of a gun; Sam gasped, jumped like he’d been shot, full-body flinch, eyes squeezed briefly shut. 

It took a long, long second to realize that nothing had happened. Sam felt a flush of humiliated fear rising. 

But the laughter Sam expected didn’t come. 

Still behind him, Lucifer snapped again. Sam jerked, but not as hard, jaw clenched tight. 

A pregnant pause, a third snap, and this time Sam winced but dared to glance over his shoulder. 

Lucifer was staring at him with flat shock and not the barest trace of mockery. Sam turned around fully and stumbled an involuntary step backward at the sheer blank danger in his face. 

Lucifer snapped a fourth time, again nothing happened, and Sam backpedalled until the bars of the Cage pressed hard into his shoulderblades. Something was happening, something in his chest was pulling, or maybe that was just the thunderous rush of blood in his ears, his frantic heartbeat.

Lucifer looked at his hand, then at Sam, then his face was stony and furious and an inch away and his fingers were pressing hard into Sam’s throat—except they _weren’t_. 

No pain, no pressure. His hand had stopped cold a centimeter short of Sam’s skin. Nick’s wedding ring glinted blue. 

Their eyes met, Sam frozen and Lucifer incredulous. 

Sam couldn’t look or move away as Lucifer slowly brought the sharp little length of wire up to Sam’s cheekbone. The force field, or whatever, stopped him again. He stepped back a little, went for Sam’s soul, was stopped; tried to hit him, his hand rebounded soundlessly. Clenched his fist, twisted, _nothing happened_. 

Without consulting his brain at all, Sam’s lungs let out a shaky cough of a laugh. His legs gave out in pure insane relief, and he slid to the ground bonelessly. “Fuck,” he heard himself gasp. “Fuck, fuck.”

Lucifer had still said nothing since that first failure, and the growing menace in his silence was enough to make Sam draw his knees into his chest where he’d crumpled, sitting against the wall and staring at the floor and blinking back tears. 

Lucifer’s mouth curved into a knife-edge smile, and he crouched in front of Sam. “Well, that’s new.” His voice was soft and so, so dangerous. 

“Yeah,” said Sam, a little hoarsely. He sniffed, cleared his throat, nodded, and looked up. “Fuck off, basically.”

“How did you—“ Lucifer broke off, squinting past Sam’s knees to the place on his bare abdomen where the symbols for the spell had faded. “Sam, you sly dog. Who hooked you up with this little number?"

Sam folded his arms to block the damn view and didn’t reply.  

“Hey, no, don’t be shy, doll. I’m impressed, I really am,” said Lucifer. “A little hurt, too. Does this mean you’re breaking up with me?”

“You can’t touch me,” said Sam. He counted his panting breaths, tried to calm down. In-two-three, out-two-three. 

Lucifer wrinkled his nose and tilted his head. His eyes were flat and shiny and very pale. “We’ll see. So, I can’t get through your magic anime shield. I assume things I create can’t, either?”

He flicked one end of the wire at Sam’s ear. Sam flinched, but the metal stopped short. He forced himself to smirk. “That would be a pretty obvious omission, wouldn’t it.”

Lucifer shrugged. “Never hurts to ask.”

He leaned in closer, trying to see, and this time Sam stood up on rubbery legs and backed away to the far corner of the Cage. Mostly for the principle of the thing. 

Lucifer laughed and stood, held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, personal bubble. My bad, I thought we were well past that, bunk buddy.”

Like he’d done a thousand times, Sam collapsed back down against the bars and turned his face away to focus on a point in the vast black emptiness beyond the metal grille. He was lightheaded; he was sick. His legs were shaking. He maybe wasn’t going to be tortured today. The building and building tension, suddenly ripped away, left him raw and shocked.

He hadn’t expected it to work. Now that it had, he didn’t know what to do or how to act. 

“Trial separation,” Lucifer reassured him. “Temporary. I  _guarantee_ you there’s a weakness in that little spell that your ragtag band overlooked.”

 

* * *

 

The next few hours were a far, far cry from the worst of Sam’s life. 

He’d had plenty of practice ignoring Lucifer back when he’d been nothing but a harmless hallucination. With the fear that at any moment he might discover a loophole, this was more difficult, but not unendurably so. 

(Unendurable, what a meaningless word. Everything was endurable. This was just easier to endure than other things.)

Plus, he was mostly keeping his eyes closed, and Lucifer didn’t have a way to force him to open them. _Not having to watch_ kinda took the sting out of games like “watch your family being tortured to death.”

Just now, Sam was curled into the corner of the bunker library instead of the Cage. Dean crouched over him, bloody smile, holding the First Blade. “It’s honestly pretty flattering, Sammy. I’m glad you can still get it up for me.” He buried the jawbone into the floor between Sam’s feet. “What do you think, lil’ brother, how many folks can we stuff in that noggin of yours? Only if you say yes, of course.”

Low-hanging fruit. Sam shut his eyes and waited. 

A sigh.

“Pretending you’re the strong, stoic type, hmm? C’mon, Sam, we both know that’s not you.”

A sharp clap, and Sam jerked automatically back, head banging into the wall for the tenth or fiftieth time. Wall? No, bars, back in the Cage, then. He opened his eyes and glanced up. 

Lucifer smirked at him. “We both know you like to make a bit of noise. Wake the upstairs neighbors.”

The Cage erupted into flames; Sam flinched hard and shut his eyes again. Still no heat or pain. Whether fire or illusion, it didn’t harm him. He was fine. 

The roar of the fire stopped. Sam braced himself. 

“You’re a mess, Sam. Look at you, twitching all over the place. I thought we established this, I can’t even _touch_ you.”

His voice was the worst part, because the thing growing in his tone promised that Sam was a second away from being a bloody smear on the walls. Honestly, the illusions, mind-games, whatever, were fine—especially since today Lucifer was too impatient and pressed for time to keep any one game going for long.

But the stomach-curling anger in his gesturing hands, in his quick steps, in his thin smile: it was cold and razor tight and so, so close to the surface. That more than anything was the reason Sam was tense and sweaty and on the verge of panic. 

Lucifer licked his lips and leaned in, too close, putting his hands either side of Sam’s head to box him against the bars. “Not that I need to touch you. Look at that.” 

Sam ground his teeth further into his tongue, because if he opened his mouth with Lucifer in this state, he’d beg, and lose the thread of this tenuous victory. 

An inch from Sam’s ear, snap, flinch, and Sam’s head hit the bars. Again. He was developing an impressive lump. “Oh _man_ , just look at that. Better than cable. Seriously.”

Sam pointedly turned away, blinked a few times to keep it together. Over Lucifer’s arm, another streak of blue lighting flashed in the void, illuminating one of the suspending chains with a brief actinic glare. 

The moment of silence stretched. 

Stretched. 

Lucifer didn’t move. Sam didn’t either, except for the numb shivering. Rabbit-frozen. 

Finally, Lucifer let out a gusty sigh and released the bars, voice suddenly light, note of malicious humor gone. “Okay, you know what, sweetheart? If you wanted some time to yourself, you could have just asked.”

The abrupt shift in mood made Sam’s stomach flip.

Lucifer turned and flopped down next to Sam, folding his hands behind his head and propping himself back against the bars. “‘Not tonight, dear, I’ve got a headache,’ and all that.”

Sam glanced at him, then looked studiously away. 

“Look, I’ve missed the company, you know? Mike’s no fun. We’ve got about an hour left. Let’s just _chat_. Like old times.”

Something nauseous twisted in Sam’s heart, a jolt that somehow made it through the buzzing muddle of tense fear. He drew his knees in closer to his chest. 

Lucifer crossed his ankles, grinning, probably because he’d seen it, on Sam’s face—a reaction that wasn’t animal instinct. “You liked talking. Remember? You _begged_ to talk. Used to tell me everything. We could do that again. Y’know, hash it out, heart-to-heart. Talk about boys—brothers? Get into what’s _really_ bothering you. Rank your symptoms, sort out your pain scale. I bet you need some recalibration.”

How do you _feel_ , Lucifer would ask, setting aside the knife, and Sam would tell him how he felt, tell him _everything_ , what he wished for, what he dreaded, what he thought about when he screamed. Sam would give him every last sensory detail of his shame and terror and misery, and be sobbingly grateful. 

It was inevitable, Sam thought carefully.

“It was, uh, what—cathartic. Your words, not mine.”

Lucifer was so thorough about it, was the problem. So diligent, so solicitous—wouldn’t be satisfied with a short answer, would drag out Sam’s tears and confessions until he was hoarse and shaking. Sucking out the poison from a wound, just so Lucifer could see exactly where it had gone, which bloody furrows were ripest for infection, so he could inject acid back in more efficiently.

“I know you haven’t been able to talk to anyone else since me. Not really. Not about what matters to you—how wrong you feel, how sick, how dirty. Dean’s so judgey. And Cas, is, well, Cas.”

Sam didn’t want to think about it. Sam didn’t want to talk about it. 

“It _was_ Castiel who found this spell, right?”

Sam’s eyes flickered back to him, he couldn’t help it. Didn’t bother correcting him. 

“Yep, yep, this has his smudgy seraph fingerprints all over. _Cas-ti-el_.” Lucifer hummed. “You know, this cute little show of yours is going to have a price.” 

Sam couldn’t help an incredulous laugh, and something about the lingering nausea made him finally break his long silence. “Seriously? What doesn’t.”

Lucifer spread his hands and smiled, eyes bright. “I’m just saying. Have you thought it through? That barrier won’t last forever.”

Sam snorted, past the lump in his throat. “Don’t worry.” 

He _tsk_ ed, all mock sympathy. “Oh, Sam. You know I always worry about you.”

Sam gritted his teeth against a spark of hollow anger, swallowed it down, let it drain out small and hot and pointless. “We’re breaking this spell for good,” he said.  

Lucifer shrugged and began to gnaw at a fingernail. “Whether I find a loophole now, or later, or whether I simply come for you when the Cage shatters, do you think this is going to be worth it?”

Sure. Fine. Whatever. “What more do you even have to threaten me with, at this point.”

Lucifer paused in chewing and cocked his head for a long moment, eyes narrowed, studying Sam with a measured, even gaze. 

“What a refreshingly naive sentiment,” he said, finally. 

He spat out a sliver of nail. 

Sam went back to staring at the blackness outside the bars. He wondered for the umpteenth time whether the space he saw beyond the metal grille was pure illusion, whether fabricated by Lucifer or the magic of the Cage itself, or if it reflected some level of reality, some darkness below and beyond creation. 

Beside him, Lucifer’s fury was well-banked and steady, only visible in the glitter of his eyes.

When Sam at last felt the pull of the world above, he gratefully let it drag him home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, today marks the one-year anniversary of this fic. Uhhh, at least I'm averaging more than a chapter a month?
> 
> So many thanks to everyone reading, old and new! We've got miles to go, folks.


	14. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

Day 9: Dean

“This is your fault,” said Dean. 

Cas didn’t argue with that, merely stood and stared at the spot where Sam had disappeared. 

“ _Now_ can we agree to get a better fucking spell?” said Dean. 

“It should have worked,” said Cas quietly.

Dean buried his face in his hands and imagined the things he was going to do with Metatron’s slimy smarmy guts. He’d pull them out inch by inch. Then he’d nail him down, hollow him out, pin back the long line of his throat and yank back his long stupid hair and start choking him with his own intestines, watch his red mouth gasp open and rip out his tongue, gouge out his big sad desperate eyes, and then Dean’s mouth tasted sour because he realized he’d been picturing Sam. 

He tried again, thinking, _Abaddon,_ got as far as taking all the skin off Sam’s back before he wrenched his fucking mind away and started over. 

Three long, bloody minutes later, Sam reappeared without fanfare, still kneeling in the spell circle. His face was white and his eyes were wet.

Dean swallowed back the red haze and dropped down to catch Sam by the shoulders. Cas yanked the cot closer with a screech of iron on cement. 

“Sam, I’m so sorry—” began Cas. 

“Where are you hurt?” Dean patted down Sam's arms, moved to open the shirt. 

“I’m not,” said Sam. His voice was soft, but it wasn’t hoarse. He batted Dean’s hands away from his buttons and stood up from the paint circle without a trace of pain. 

“He healed you?” He wasn’t openly weeping this time. Goddamn miracles, praise the lord. 

Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes and sniffed. And grinned. “No, I mean I’m not hurt,” he said. “It _worked_.”

An punch of shock so icy it burned caught Dean under the ribs. “It worked,” repeated Dean dumbly.

Sam grabbed a gaping Cas by the wrist and pulled him into a hug, lips moving in words Dean couldn’t hear. Cas stood shocked for a moment before hugging him back with abrupt ferocity.

Then Sam’s sweaty arms were wrapping around Dean, too, a quick, shaky squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured in Dean's ear, which was a bit fucked because Dean had barely done anything. Sam was trembling all over, big and breathless and panting like a racehorse.

Dean’s arms went up to pat him numbly on the back, but Sam was already releasing him and backing away. 

“Okay. I’m, I’m gonna shower,” said Sam. “I don’t need to be worried about messing up the spellwork, right, Cas?”

“No,” said Cas. He was staring at Sam like he couldn't believe it, like he couldn't get enough. Dean was blankly aware that he was probably doing the same thing. “We’ll reapply it in three days.”

Sam nodded, flashed a smile so quick it might have been a trick of the light, and vanished out the door. 

Dean collapsed onto the cot with a shriek of old springs.

There was a long moment of ringing silence. 

Cas said, delicately, “We should replenish our stock of fresh thyme. That paint requires large amounts of it.”

“Sure, Cas,” said Dean.

 

* * *

 

Dean left Cas to clear up and stumbled upstairs to the kitchen. 

What _happened_ , he thought, and then, _eggs_ , and opened the fridge—good. He sniffed the milk, still fine. He banged open some cabinets. Grabbed a handle of whiskey, Sam would want that. Whatever had happened, he'd want that. Dean took a quick shot for himself, too, an antidote to his shaking hands. 

He was about to get scrambled eggs going, and then realized that Sam might actually eat a real-boy breakfast today. Depending on what had happened. Probably still wouldn't touch straight-up bacon or sausage, but ham in an omelette maybe? With lots of cheese, and they had onions and peppers. He should make one with beans, too, in case. And pancakes, yeah, there was still most of a box of Bisquick. God bless Betty Crocker. 

Dean found a half-empty bag of chocolate chips in one of the higher cabinets. He wondered why Sam had bought it. _When_ was obvious, _when_ was while Dean had been on his road-trip, because that shelf had been empty before. But it's not like Sam had much of a sweet tooth, or any kind of knack in the kitchen. Dean pictured Sam burning a batch of cookies, and then he pictured Sam burning, and then he grabbed the bag and slammed the cabinet shut and added a few handfuls of chocolate to one of the pancake batches. 

They were almost out of baking powder, so Dean scrawled it on a motel notepad. After a beat, he remembered and added thyme, too. 

Cas showed up, apparently done in the basement, and put on the kettle. “For tea,” he explained, unnecessarily.

And yeah, Dean should have thought of that one. “Great,” he said. 

Cas sniffed at the chocolate chip batter curiously, looking like he was about to dip his hand in, so Dean shooed him back out. 

Not long after Dean finished folding over a third omelette, Sam emerged with damp hair curling around his ears. He stopped in the doorway when he saw the pile of food.

“Milk or OJ?” asked Dean, instead of _what happened_. 

“Uh,” said Sam, intelligently. He was still shaking, but less than before. And the horrible wide-eyed pale look was mostly gone. 

Cas trailed after him carrying a huge pile of blankets.

Sam’s mouth twitched. Dean said, “Are we having a sleepover?”

“I've been reading articles on the internet about the treatment of shock and adrenal fatigue,” Cas said seriously. “I came to the conclusion that you two don't take very good care of yourselves in the aftermath of traumatic stress.”

Sam’s lips half-parted and he raised his eyebrows at Dean in a way that was clearly meant to convey something significant. Fuck if Dean knew what. Dean raised his eyebrows back, which got him an eye-roll.

Cas draped a fluffy comforter over Sam’s back and nudged him towards the chair. Sam didn't protest, which made Dean’s stomach flip. 

“Keep the blankets out of the syrup,” said Dean. “Siddown, no vegetables till you eat your chocolate pancakes. There’s milk or OJ.”

“What, no mimosas?” murmured Sam, but he sat and accepted a plate of pancakes, hunching under the blanket. 

Dean slid him the whiskey. “And omelettes—Western?”

Sam’s head jerked up. He looked stricken. “Um. I don't think—do you have plain?”

Yeah, actually, it had been pretty stupid to get his hopes up, huh. Strange how quickly that had happened. Maybe the _adrenal crash_ was getting to him, too. Hell of a drug. “Yeah, no, I know, I got bean, too.”

“Thanks,” said Sam, sounding a bit too relieved for Dean’s liking. 

Dean sorted out the food. He poured OJ because it was closer. 

The kettle whistled; Cas dumped the rest of the mattress-worth of bedding onto a chair and went to shuffle around in Sam’s tea cabinet. 

Sam shuddered and pulled the blanket further up over his shoulders. He picked up the fork and prodded at a pancake, then at the omelette. 

Cas brought over three steaming mugs. Sam poured a generous slug of whiskey into his.

“I added sugar. We don't have any honey,” said Cas, apologetic. Should have picked some up from Cain, Dean’s mind suggested absently.

Sam shook his head and cupped the mug, taking a hefty swallow. 

Cas stared, his expression a weird strained relief. He didn’t touch his own tea. Jesus, Cas, keep it together, Dean thought, without malice, and let the hysterical hypocrisy pull him through a bone-deep shudder of suppressed _something_. It was the usual cocktail of panicky synapses pulled wire-tight, after a fight or a bad injury. _Adrenal crash._

To avoid having to look at Cas’s constipation face, Dean dug into his own omelette. For a few bites, it didn't taste like anything, really—as if there was no butter, no spice, no meat, just flat mushy egg. Then he shut his eyes for a few seconds, chewed a bit more, and the flavor returned. 

Downright decent, if he said so himself. 

Sam drank down half his spiked tea before he started in on the food. Dean tried to stare without staring. Sam’s hands were noticeably trembling. His fork clattered on the plate, a little too loudly, enough to make the aftershock of Dean’s quickened pulse thud in his ears. 

Dean bit his tongue and let Sam get through a pancake and half the omelette, every clank of cutlery alternately muted or clanging like a nail driving straight into his ear, before he couldn't hold it back. 

“ _What happened_?”

Sam gulped some egg and wiped at his mouth. “It worked.”

“What the fuck does that mean? You still vanished. You look freaked, you’re hugging a damn blanket.”

“I mean, I still ended up in the Cage, but I didn’t get hurt,” Sam explained, all patient, like Dean was a fucking idiot for worrying. He gestured unhelpfully. “There was this barrier.”

Dean had been imagining—well, he didn’t know what, but it wasn’t that. “A barrier. Okay, Violet. As in, he was there, but couldn’t touch you?”

Sam nodded; the curl of a smile. “Yeah,” his brother said, around a mouthful of pancake. 

“What did he do?” asked Cas, and the abupt note of genuine fear in his tone made Dean’s fist clench. 

Sam shrugged. “Talked.”

Cas frowned. “Was he trying to break the spell?”

Sam shrugged again. “Maybe.”

“Wow, great clarification. I swear it’s like—” Dean’d been about to say, like pulling teeth. “Like a chore, with you,” he finished lamely. He swallowed. 

Sam scrunched his forehead and went back to cutting at his pancakes. “I’m not trying to be difficult. I guess he was trying to figure out a way around the spell. He tried stuff, I mean, normal stuff.” He made a little motion with the fork and knife, by way of explanation. “No rituals or anything, that I could tell, anyway. He just, none of it worked.”

“That isn't how that spell is supposed to operate,” murmured Cas, still sounding fucking worried. “It's supposed to cut you off entirely. You should have stayed on Earth.”

“I guess the anchoring connection is too strong for that,” said Sam, and Dean’s gut twinged unpleasantly. “Archangel, true vessel, all that. But the spell still protected me.”

“You still got pulled down,” said Dean. “Obviously we need something better.” 

There was a fleck of egg on Sam’s chin. The skin around his eyes looked bluish and papery thin when he tilted his head up. “That would be nice, yeah. But this worked. He got frustrated. I don’t think he knows a way around it.”

Dean imagined he could see straight through Sam’s temple to the pulsing blood and brain matter beneath. “Yet,” he said.

Sam gave him a dry, bitchy look and dropped his hands below the table. Dean watched the muscles in his arm work, knew Sam was pressing on the scar in his palm, and couldn't find it in himself to feel guilty. 

Why are you trying to hide it, Dean wanted to say. His forearm itched, but he pushed the sensation away. Don't hide it, he thought. Show me. Show me that it hurts, Sam. Let me in. _Let_ me. 

 

* * *

 

Day 10: Dean

Dean’s hands were shaking too hard, breath coming too fast for a run this short, and the flush of useless panic was making everything blurry. 

Sam was fine. 

Dean had to yank himself over to the side of the trail and stop and gasp.

Sam’s phone was on the library table and his bed was made and Cas had no idea where he was, he’d gone to Hell yesterday and returned unharmed, and this bunker was warded against everything even vaguely supernatural. 

But Sam was fucking fine. He was fine because if he wasn’t, Dean had absolutely _no idea_ what he would do. 

And basically there was no reason at all for Dean to be having a goddamn conniption in the middle of Sam’s second-favorite running trail, even though he’d already searched Sam’s first-favorite and there’d been no trace of him.

Dean’d fought everything he could. He’d killed and he’d bargained and he’d traded away everything, his life, the people around him, his soul, his brother’s soul, all to get _here_ , to this backcountry road in the center of the country and none of it was enough. Nothing had ever been enough, to keep Sam safe. Not to keep Sam here—not with him, not even on Earth. 

Dean pictured Sam vanishing into thin air. Then he pictured Sam slack and bloodless, sprawled at the side of a dirt road, head lolling, eyes open and empty; he was cupping Sam’s head in his hands, combing his fingers through matted clots of blood. He was twisting Sam’s neck, scrape-crack like popping a beer.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, and froze. 

Behind him, a rustle. 

The sudden danger wasn’t an idle creep of unease—it was immediate, mortal, _something behind you_. He whipped around, gun drawn.

A bird, big and black, took off in a flurry of noisy movement. 

Dean nearly shot it, but he didn’t. There was nothing to fight. 

He started running again. 

 

* * *

 

Dean caught a flash of a familiar brown jacket bunched up under a tree, thought, _blood, concussion, seizure_. “SAM!”

Sam’s head whipped up and he pulled at something by his jawline—earbuds, black, dangling from a clip on his shoulder. Sam was fine, just sitting against a tree trunk, looking confused and alarmed, probably because Dean had come sprinting out of the woods and screamed his name. That was fair.

The blunt flood of messy relief hit hard. More even than when Sam had first returned untouched. 

“What’s wrong?” Sam was reaching for his gun, scrambling upright. 

“You weren’t in the library,” gasped Dean, grinding to a halt a few feet away. 

Sam paused. His face looked—Dean would have said beaten, except that it clearly wasn’t, not bruised or bloody or anything. But it was crumpled, in places, like a grocery bag that's been balled up then flattened out. Seemed like if Dean tried, he could reach out and touch and Sam’s skin would tear like wet paper.

“I went for a run,” said Sam slowly. He stopped pushing himself up and sat back down against the tree, staring at Dean. 

Dean nodded, still panting, and gestured. “Yeah, you’re moving real quick there, Forrest.” 

Sam’s lip twitched, almost a smile. He shifted, pulling his legs up closer to his body. “I decided to take a break.” 

It tipped Dean’s instincts in a strange way, to see Sam scrunched up like this. Sam was basically kneeling, right at Dean’s feet. Such a vulnerable position, anything could be out here, didn’t Sam know that? 

Made him oddly angry, oddly relieved. Sam doing Sam things, running off, being careless with his own goddamn life. 

“Okay, well, I get you're still pissed, but maybe next time you could bring your phone along when you decide to go full Thoreau,” said Dean. 

Sam’s face closed off as abruptly as a slammed door, and Dean instantly regretted saying anything. “Fine. I’ll do that,” said Sam. 

Dean stood, awkwardly, for a moment. 

Sam looked away from him, but he wasn’t putting his earbuds back in. 

Dean said, “I'm not trying to give you shit. I just, you vanished. Cas didn’t know where you were.”

Sam nodded.

“And the spell. And the other spell, the protection.”

Sam nodded again. 

“You know. Because what if it was only delayed, or something, and I never even saw you go?”

“I got it,” said Sam. 

“Okay,” said Dean. 

He turned and took a few steps back. Looked up and down the trail, where it dipped in and out of fields on one side and woods on the other. Calling it a trail was a bit generous, actually—it was just a flattened, overgrown path that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades. Sam’s nigh-religious morning runs were probably the only thing keeping it around these days. 

Sam sighed. “Did you need something else?”

“What are you doing out here, anyway?”

Sam held up his earbuds. The plastic clacked. “Podcast.”

“Do the woods have better acoustics than the bunker?”

Sam rubbed a temple. “Christ, Dean. What do you want me to say?” 

Dean stared at him. Sam stank of fear and careful, deliberate obfuscation. As if he thought red eyes and refusing to talk would make Dean assume he’s only tired. “Are you okay?” 

Sam met his gaze evenly. “I’m doing better.”

Dean swallowed. Okay. “Good. I know I've been, I know this whole thing has been hard.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Our lives have been hard, Dean. Not exactly worth starting the pity party now.”

“And I haven't made it easier.”

Sam looked up at him, cocked his head like Cas sometimes did. Eyes wide. Careful. Waiting. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Dean took a deep breath, felt a strange thrilled lump in his chest, the kind that came before a beating, when you knew you had it coming. “I’m no good for you.”

Sam’s expression broke open and crumpled in. He sniffed, shook his head, and when he lifted his head he was smiling, a horrible, bitter thing. “Ah. How convenient.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Dean said quickly, “I know I fucked up. There’s nothing I can do to—it’s never gonna go away.”

Sam unplugged his earbuds from his phone and wrapped them up. Cracked his neck, stood, and still wouldn’t look at Dean.

“Can we just call a truce,” Dean said, because if there wasn’t anything left to fight then at least he could bring out the white flag. 

Sam snorted, brushing twigs and dirt from his jeans with violent precision, and like that, the sharp pang of grief and regret sublimated into bright, hot fury. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sam,” Dean spat, and there might have been tears in his eyes, “message fucking received. You can quit it.”

“Quit what?” Sam shook his head, grinned, said, “You think I’m punishing you or something?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, Sam! All I know is you’re mad, you vanished for hours, and you didn’t bring your fucking phone, and you’ve got—you could be seeing white rabbits, for all I know!”

Sam rocked back on his heels, chin snapping up and back like he’d been struck. “For all I know,” he repeated, softly. 

A long, long moment passed. Sam didn’t look angry, and Dean thought it would have been easier if he did. But he just looked hurt, or thoughtful. It was difficult to tell the two apart—wrinkled brow, tight lips. Could be either. Could be both. 

Because of course, Dean, pointless brainless blunt weapon Dean, who tilted at windmills and punched into the wind, couldn't hurt the people he _actually_ wanted to hurt. Abaddon. Gadreel. Metatron. _Lucifer_ , top of the list for years and years, and if there was anything Dean knew, he knew he’d never get to watch that bastard die. Dean just had a Mark he couldn’t use and a brother he couldn’t save. Which meant that whenever Dean itched with the need to _hurt_ , there was only Sam. And Sam didn't deserve it, god, deserved so much better than Dean. 

Sam brushed past Dean, walking back to the trail and the short trip home. 

“You know that's not what I meant,” said Dean, because he had to say something. 

Sam shrugged. Kept walking. 

Dean jogged a few steps to catch up, followed in silence. 

“You wanted to know if I’m okay _,_ ” said Sam, finally. “You asked. I thought you didn't want to hear it. You haven't wanted to hear anything else I've said this year. I'm fine, safe, whatever, so why do you suddenly give a fuck what I want?”

The unfairness of _that_ stung Dean’s eyes, lit his temper. He swallowed hard, counted to ten, told the Mark to fuck off. “You _know_ it's not like that.”

“Why do you think I know that? You assume that I, I—” Dean had stopped dead, and so had Sam, but Sam hadn’t turned around. He was a few steps ahead. Dean watched his shoulders rise and fall, his hands bunch and unbunch where they dangled at his waist. “But I can’t trust _anything_ , Dean, do you _get_ that?”

Dean got why Sam was clinging to this. It wasn’t fair; Dean knew that, it wasn’t fair that the world kept hitting Sam down and expecting him to absorb every blow. But Dean wanted Sam to scab over and fight back. Sam’s suicidal fucking zen determination to stay unbothered was pulling him under.

Sam started walking again. 

“Yeah,” said Dean, quietly. “I got it.”

 

* * *

 

Sam didn’t say anything else to him for the rest of the day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've been bouncing around with chapter lengths--some short, some long. So, this may or may not impact my writing schedule, and no matter what I’m still only going to release a chapter when I’m sufficiently happy with its quality, but if you have a preference, would you guys prefer shorter chapters more frequently or longer chapters less frequently? 
> 
> Also, I'd like to reiterate my love for everyone who's been reading. Commenters, obviously, but also you lovely lurkers ;)


	15. Scorched-Earth Policy

Day 12: Sam

At seven AM, Dean asked Sam if he was okay. 

Sam replied, “Not hurt,” and didn’t offer anything else.

Dean’s mouth tightened, but he nodded and let that be. 

They went upstairs and Sam began the process of taping his unpleasant morning down into a cardboard box, flattening it, and moving it to the back of his mind. 

He levered himself into his chair in the library. He let the screens and books reel him in, keeping his hands busy. Shook his head at himself, sometimes, to knock stray thoughts loose, when he got too caught up. There was a point where putting words to things, trying to explain or contain or deal with them, was senseless. Sam could pack it all aside and store it carefully unexamined, save for the few key insights he might need to look at again.

Not that he’d learned much from another few hours with an angry Lucifer who, to all appearances, still had no idea how to touch him. Sam rubbed at his knuckles. 

No intel, but it hadn’t been that bad. It was just talking, and he could deal with talking. People who said psychological torture was worse than physical were full of shit and clearly hadn’t ever had their guts ripped out. Plus, the voice wasn’t even inside his head this time. So if it ever got really bad, Sam could just puncture his eardrums. A hassle to deal with topside, to be sure, but it was comforting to have the back pocket contingency. Maybe there was a soul-linked earplugs spell—not top priority, but might be good for his sanity. 

Or morale, or whatever, because realistically, his sanity was doing fine, and at the very least as “fine” as either of them had been in years. Which was to say: a psychiatrist’s field day, but boasting a reasonably impressive level of day-to-day functionality. 

Sam wasn’t allowed to tell Dean he was fine, of course, even with the understanding that “fine” had had its own definition in the Winchester playbook for a long time. 

“Fine” would just lead to another goddamn argument, and either Sam would cede more ground and he’d feel sick, or he wouldn’t and he’d feel worse. He’d nurse the nauseous culpability of hurting Dean just by existing, by being hurt and angry and everything else, every jagged thing Lucifer and Gadreel gave him. The things Sam still blamed Dean for, and the things he would never dream of blaming Dean for, and if they were difficult to separate in his own head, well, then Sam didn’t have a prayer of explaining any of it to Dean. 

Sam was pretty sure Dean was taking this whole debacle worse than he was, frankly. 

Which was perfectly understandable; Sam would be several miles past desperate if their roles were reversed. But the frustration still caught thickly in Sam’s throat. They’d been here before. After the wall first fell, it had been much worse. Dean would know. He’d watched Sam shoot up an empty warehouse. 

Hell, even in the years since the worst of it, there were still days when Sam darkly wondered if he’d ever left the Cage in the first place. Not often; only at night, or when he was in the right mood, because it wasn’t really a helpful sentiment, but the point remained: this wasn’t fucking _new_. Maybe it was the fucking Mark on Dean’s arm making him forget how long Sam’s been _coping_ , and, okay, that wasn’t fair. 

Dean was trying. Dean was a fixer. 

Lucifer would never be something he could fix.

 

* * *

 

Sam spent the afternoon in the library while Dean moved in and out.

The key goals hadn’t changed. Find Metatron, find Abaddon. Kill them both, end the curse, make sure the Cage can’t be opened, get the warring demons and angels to knock it off with the turf wars. 

Metatron: still holed up in Heaven, unreachable to all save his chosen few; Cas was looking for a way in. Abaddon: in the wind; Dean was looking for a way to track her down. Curse: stop-gap solution achieved; Sam was looking for a way to end it altogether. 

They didn’t talk much. Dean offered food and brief ideas, which Sam accepted. Dean wasn’t even griping about the research, which was how Sam could tell he was in a foul mood. 

Sometimes the lighting down here was harsh. A rotting yellow. Claustrophobic. 

Sam found himself halfway through another dusty exegesis of the _Ma’aseh Merkabah_ , a text of Jewish ascent kabbalism. It was a thin vellum manuscript, loose leaf and bound with twine (which reminded him; he needed to buy more archival boxes). Sam was familiar with the author of the treatise: a prolific 17 th century Man of Letters who was, according to his contemporaries, an expert on the topic of Heaven. 

Baschman took a decidedly empirical approach to the study of religious mysticism, which Sam usually appreciated. Ornate theurgic seals, some hefty mantras meant to protect yourself from the might of an angel’s true form, and eight pages describing the practicalities of attempting to call upon an angel and achieve _henosis_ with it. 

Sam rather doubted he’d actually managed the feat, but that hadn’t stopped him from elaborating on the apparently spiritual experience in glowing terms, for a further ten pages: “ _HE_ grants to those more Exalted beings, in Scripture described as Eternal, the highest measure of Existence, as Beings which are possessed of full Being. This facet of the Preexistent is so sublime, so Divine, that to experience it renders man weeping at the Joy of the Union thusly accomplished. To call upon the attention of those beings Transcendentally above us, I advise you: Contemplation. Humility. Self-surrender.”

Sam privately and sincerely loathed Elias Baschman. 

Times like this, he keenly missed Bobby. No one better when it came to discussing the intricacies of Talmudic esoterica. Cas was invaluable for translation and fact-checking, but he was extremely literal. The ways the practitioners and sages of antiquity recorded accounts of angelic visitation was spiced with truth, but leaned heavily on cultural metaphor and symbolism. Cas wasn’t hip to the pop culture of any century.

At any rate, they’d covered most of this ground a long time ago, back during the could-have-been Apocalypse. Sam would run the new stuff by Cas, though it was almost certainly a list of dead ends. The pagan rites he’d found were powerful but likely too general or too situational; ditto with Eastern mysticism; Judeo-Christian lore was better suited to deal with angels, but archangels were exceptions to a frustrating number of spells. 

Sam shoved the books to the side, stretched, and clicked open the laptop. 

He pulled up a new folder on his drive, cycled through his filters, browsed RSS feeds. Before Kevin, Sam had been looking into a new software to make the pattern-matching algorithms run more smoothly. That project had fallen by the wayside, but it might be a good way to track the movements of the gathering angel factions. 

Or he could click over and open up another tract on Lucifer, just for fun. He had a whole file, even though up till now he’d barely had a use for it in years—Sam had a policy of never deleting research if he could help it. See, you never knew when it might come up again. Lucifer’s folder was hefty and easy to navigate, even though he’d put it together before updating to his current system of file organization. So many accounts. So many different traditions and myths inspired by him; everything from Nidhogg to Iblis, Phosphorus to Phaethon. 

He flexed his hand and absently rubbed at the flaking scabs on his bitten knuckles, the only casualty from this morning. 

Lucifer was breaking out. Lucifer would need a vessel. 

Sam had thought of carving ‘ _keep out_ ’ on his bones, even prior to the current crisis. He’d considered ways of making himself inaccessible, locking himself in a cage of blood and magic and steel and hiding away in a corner of his mind. But he didn’t know a spell for that. 

Lucifer was going to ask, soon. 

Maybe Sam was going about things the wrong way: maybe this was a war of attrition. Strategic retreat, thendestroy the rest. Poison to make the land uninhabitable. Dump lead in the wells. Salt the bones, salt the crops, cleanse it all with purifying fire. 

Abruptly, Sam found himself thinking not of Lucifer but of Metatron. Metatron and his followers and all the other exiled angels carefully casting their nets to prey on the vulnerable and the religious. The people who’d watched the events of recent years with wide eyes—the signs and the omens, the earthquakes and meteor showers, and suspected, rightly, with the fearful instinct of prey animals, that some hideous higher powers were playing games. 

Forget the gates of Hell. The enemy was above. 

 

* * *

 

Day 14: Sam

In Forrest City, Arkansas, Dean tapped a knife on the red sigil scrawled on the filthy cement wall. He watched the dried pieces flake off. 

“Well, it ain’t ketchup,” he pronounced. 

Cas had called in yesterday because an entire group of angels he’d been in talks with went missing. It had taken much less time than expected to find them—or rather, their burnt-out vessels, flung about a storeroom in an abandoned warehouse, dead mid-fight.

“It’s human blood,” said Cas, crouched over one of the bodies. He traced the scorched imprint of wings with a finger. “Mixed with griffin feathers and bone from a member of the Unseelie Court.”

The sigil had been drawn on the only clear spot in the room. Everywhere else, wooden pallets, steel drums, and rusted shelving stacked with industrial detritus stood against the cinderblock walls. In other places, panels of aluminum siding had fallen away to reveal bare studs and dark cavities. There was blood and ash everywhere. 

Sam had an image search going on his phone. “You say you heard a sound?”

“Like a siren—a ringing call for unity,” Cas confirmed. “It’s stopped, now. This was a lure to catch angels.”

Sam scrolled through the results. No exact matches, as usual, but, with the added constraint of something that could attract angels… 

“You don’t say,” said Dean. He leaned over one of the corpses—a woman with dark hair and a jean jacket, her arms thrown up in supplication or self-defense, her blood smeared on the brick behind her. “So, who laid the honeytrap, evil Barbie or evil bookworm?”

“Metatron’s the one recruiting angels,” said Cas, more than a tad snippy. “In case you’ve forgotten, in your pursuit of Barbie.”

A possible hit. Dean looked about to retort, so Sam cleared his throat. “Check this out. I think this symbol could be a horn. An old spell to unite angels for a battle.”

Dean leaned in over his shoulder to peek at the screen. Sam ignored how his neck prickled. “Think horn of Gondor?” asked Dean.

Sam nodded. “Gabriel, but otherwise, yeah, basically. It's a call to action. Cas, of the angels you were supposed to be meeting—anyone missing?”

Cas straightened up. “This was Kerubiel’s host,” he said. “That was Daniel,” he pointed at a woman crumpled in the corner. “There, Elethiel, Dardai, and Lailah. The three others, I don’t recognize.” He absently brushed his bloody hands on his coat. “Of those I spoke to, Hannah is missing. So are Hofniel, Dumah, and Phanuel.”

Sam exchanged a look with Dean. “So, four missing, and we know they were all in this town. Either they got away—”

“Or they joined up,” finished Dean. 

Cas pinched his eyebrows together. “I know them. Hannah, especially, would not give in so easily to Metatron’s demands.”

“Right, ’cause your angel buddies are such prime examples of free will and good decision-making,” said Dean. 

Something tingled at the back of Sam’s mind—not the keyed-up taste of adrenaline, not the sour tang of fear, something subtler. Worse. Wrongness. Something off. The instinct Sam got on hunts, sometimes, in an abandoned house, like a whisper just beyond hearing: _something in the darkness_.

“Dean,” Sam hissed. 

Cas made a choking noise, and jerked around to face the sigil. 

An instant later, it lit up in brilliant gracelight-blue.

“Something’s coming,” murmured Sam.

 

* * *

 

They moved quickly, with little discussion necessary.

Dean sprayed down devil’s traps with practiced efficiency. Sam poured holy oil. Cas, unable to comfortably move more than a few yards from the active horn sigil, was playing bait. The best plans were usually the simple ones: stay hidden and out of sight, trap as many as possible, figure out what they were dealing with, then move in to kill or capture. 

Thin bluish light reflected from oil-shine puddles, grimy windows, rusted steel doors: it put Sam at a weird kind of mid-hunt ease. Waiting crouched in routine stomping grounds, angel blade drawn, senses tuned and focused and waiting to draw blood, felt like a steady rush of cool, clear instinct. Keen and firm and safe. 

Dean finished the last trap and joined Sam in the shadows behind a stack of pallets.

They didn't have to wait long. Barely ten minutes passed before the loud metallic screech of the main warehouse door cut through the quiet.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway—just one set, odd given the number of dead, and Sam gripped his weapon tighter. 

The figure creaked open the door and stepped into the storeroom, and the plan was suddenly unimportant. Rage crashed into Sam from nowhere, a blazing train at full speed. 

Dean squeezed his arm in warning, but Sam wrenched free and strode out of the shadows, caution overtaken by the gut-punch of furious recognition.

“Remember me?” growled Sam. He felt his mouth twisting and didn’t stop it. Dean swore and flicked the lighter into the ring of holy oil. 

Gadreel froze, eyes wide, staring at Sam in guileless shock. Violence rose in the back of Sam’s throat. He wanted to rip the expression off Gadreel’s stolen face. 

Dean flipped his angel blade in an easy spin. “Okay, douchebag. Anyone else with you?” 

Gadreel went blank and stony. 

“Take that as a no,” said Dean smoothly. “No backup, huh? Sucks to be the unpopular kid.”

“Metatron will come for me,” said Gadreel. His voice was hoarse and thin. The flames lit his pale eyes with an alien gleam. 

Sam pictured him burning. “We’ll see about that,” he said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all of you wonderful people for reading. 
> 
> Your comments are treasures. 
> 
> Guess who has a [tumblr](https://katsidhe.tumblr.com/) now, hint, it's me! Come talk to me about Sam Winchester :))))


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